


The Man with the Silver Swords

by EvilFluffyBiteyThing



Series: The Silver Swords Trilogy [1]
Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Demon Hunters, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Enemies to Friends, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, No Romance, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 109,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFluffyBiteyThing/pseuds/EvilFluffyBiteyThing
Summary: Sir Richard Rich has always had an eye upon advancement - and will do whatever he can to gain it, even if it means working with those he despises.  A chance encounter, having fallen asleep over papers in the offices of Hampton Court Palace, leads him to an extraordinary discovery.  Thus begins an adventure that shall have ramifications for the very future of England - and for three men of the Tudor Court, life will never be quite the same again.





	1. The Stranger in the Office

**Author's Note:**

> I am rather a fan of the Historical Mashup, and put this together after watching the interaction between Cromwell and Rich during season 3 of The Tudors, as one got the sense of a Man-with-a-Mission and his Ever-Present-Sidekick. Historical accuracy has decided to go on holiday for the duration, but as we are entering an alternate universe, I'm sure it won't mind being elsewhere.
> 
> Previously posted on FanFiction.net - but happily sharing more widely. Concrit welcome - hope that you enjoy. Sorry if you've already read it - but if you want to give it another go, I'll be delighted!

 

I awake with a start. The candle has guttered and gone out: starved of wax that is now a pool of translucent white on the table. I am face down on the wood, my head resting upon papers and sheets of vellum. Not for the first time, I appear to have fallen asleep at my desk. Around me, the Palace of Hampton Court sleeps, and I have no doubt the surrounding peasantry snores peacefully away, too.

A clock strikes outside in the darkness: the quarter. I have no idea of the hour, but the moon, such as it is, is sufficient to lift the darkness in the chamber a little, and I can see to tidy up the mess. It is not my preference to work so late - not even on the business of the King - not when there is a full tankard and a gaming table ready for my attention; but nonetheless, these papers must be prepared and for reasons of his own the King's Secretary felt obliged to depart as that same clock struck the hour of six after noon.

_Damn you, Cromwell_ , I think to myself; displeased at such laxity. For one claimed to work so hard, where is he tonight? Why is he not burning candles down to the nub? I have no doubt that he would be able to furnish me with a suitable excuse about being required in the King's presence - we are, after all, both lawyers by trade - nonetheless, it rubs raw that he should have left me to do this. But then, that I am obliged to be second to him does little to lessen the hurt.

No mistake - I loathe the man. I have no doubt that he despises me equally in return as he is no more than a base-born son of a tradesman who could not know any better. Churl of his nature have no knowledge or understanding of the importance of the higher ranks, and the fact that his rank in the Court exceeds mine is as sore a blister as his absence from this tedious work. I am not blind to my reputation about the court, and I care nothing for that as long as I am able to advance my career - and thus I set myself at Cromwell's side in the hopes of achieving advancement upon his heels. I am quite sure that he is as aware of this as he is of my deep dislike - perhaps that is why he assigned such dull, tedious work to me before he departed. The thoughts are childish, perhaps, but they make a pleasing accompaniment to my tidying.

The last of the papers stored in a coffer, I reach for my cloak with dark musings on how to exact some petty revenge on the morrow; and stop dead at the sound of a scrape and bump from the other side of the door. No one should be abroad at such an hour; but perhaps it is nothing more than a rat…

Another scrape, then a low moan. No rat then. I begin to tremble, fearing burglary, or even assault, and now I am grateful for the last of the old moon and the shadows it affords me. I keep well back as the door creaks open, admitting a tall, shapeless form that shuffles and limps forward, leaning on tables and shelves as though they were crutches. Someone in a cloak, with a soft black bonnet pulled low; but who would be here now? Why are they aiming so resolutely, if slowly, for the Master Secretary's desk?

The intruder is no more than two paces from his apparent goal when he moans again and this time falls heavily to the boards. Even now, he still tries to move forward, but clearly cannot - he lacks the strength. Not wishing to disturb this fallen stranger, I step forward as silently as I can in order to escape to the door undetected. As I do so, I see smears across the floorboards, and I realise that he has left a trail of blood in his wake. A dead man, then. Perhaps I should just allow God's will to take its course…

A floorboard creaks, and I bite back a grunt that threatens to be come a squeak.

"Who's there?" the voice is weak, but my movement has given me away, so it seems that his senses are still sharp, then. I stop dead, cursing to myself for my foolishness, and wonder what to do, uncertain now whether the owner of that voice is as far gone as his faint words suggest. He is, however, upon the floor and largely helpless, so of little threat to me now. Easy enough to take the initiative, then.

I step forward and snatch a knife from a nearby table - a short blade for sharpening quills - and reach down to pull the folds of black away, then snatch the soft, black bonnet from the stranger's head…

"Jesu God!" I cannot keep back the epithet, for the stranger is no stranger; he is Thomas Cromwell.

* * *

 "Is that you, Mr Rich?" he asks, his voice thick with pain. I turn him over and see wetness about the black of his doublet. I realise that a knife has entered him; nothing else could have caused such an outpouring of blood if the trail he has left behind him is truly his and not another's. Am I surprised at such an outcome? A man so hated, so despised, could only possibly end up with a knife in his side, since he has the favour of the King and there is no possible chance of his being dispatched on the block. I am more surprised that it is not a knife in the back.

"Yes, it is I." I say, "How is it that this has happened?"

He is sheened with sweat, his eyes wide and vivid. Without speaking, he raises a trembling arm and points upwards towards a small black coffer that sits on a shelf behind his desk. Made of the finest ebony, carved thickly with strange beasts and vines, it is rarely on the shelf upon which it currently resides - but when it is, he guards it like a lion, and none of us are permitted to touch it. Cromwell rarely shows temper, but any who try to reach the coffer are sure to feel its strike.

"Fetch it." The words are all but spat out, but I comply, not particularly out of a desire to help Cromwell, but to see at last what this forbidden box contains. Something sinful, no doubt. I pause, irked at myself. Am I really so willing to instantly believe the worst of the man lying at my feet?

Breathing hard, Cromwell retrieves a kerchief from the folds of his cloak and crumples it into a thick wad, while I set the box down on the floor and, unbidden, open it. Rather than object, instead he instructs, fumblingly unfastening his doublet as he does so.

"The pewter bottle - open it. Empty it onto the cloth." Reaching into the coffer, I retrieve a metal bottle that must hold a tankard's worth of some liquid. I comply, snatching the kerchief and soaking the muslin in a clear fluid that smells strongly of distilled spirits, then look down at him and curse; his eyes are all but rolling up into his head - he is not long for this world, and if he does not speak again, then he shall be gone. Do I mind? Again, I am not sure.

"The vial," he continues, faintly, "Three drops." I retrieve an ugly black vial shaped like a hideous imp with a lead stopper at the top, sealed with wax. Breaking the seal and working out the stopper, I recoil sharply and almost drop it. The stench that emerges from the item is so offensive that I can barely keep from retching, but again, I follow the instruction and drip three, malodorous black spots onto the spirit-soaked cloth, then look down at him in hopes of prompting him to speak again.

"The stick," he chokes, "Then the wad." Looking into the case a third time, I see a thick piece of wood, dented and chipped along its length. Snatching it, Cromwell jams it between his teeth, then reaches for the wad. As he lifts up the bloody linen of his shirt to expose his side, I finally see the wound and cannot stop from cursing - it is deep, bleeding profusely…it's mortal; it has to be. He cannot possibly survive this…

Ignoring my revulsion, Cromwell tenses, closes his eyes tightly, and presses the wad to the gash. I cannot help but jump back as he seems almost to leap from the ground, a hideous screech emerging from his clenched mouth. His free hand, clamped into a fist, hammers madly down on the floorboards and he writhes in agony. No matter how bad the wound, this, it would appear, is far worse. I want to run, to vomit, to scream - but I cannot move; held by the awful spectacle of this highly placed man uttering such a ghastly noise, his head tossing from side to side as his heels start to drum the floor in a ghastly counterpoint to the thumping of his fist.

At last, after what seems like an eternity that should bring all the guards in the palace rushing to our door, he relaxes and is still, though his breathing is harsh. As I become aware of myself again, I realise that I have backed away to the wall, and curse my cowardice. But it is still not over; instead, he spits out the stick and speaks again, "The pitcher on the table - a cup, and a basin." Apparently he is not yet able to move, so I must do his fetching.

Once again, I comply, and set a heavy, filled pewter pitcher down beside him, and then a wooden cup, and copper basin - all apparently set there for this purpose, though I had not noticed them when I woke and I dread to imagine what he intends to do with them. Moving painfully, he lifts himself to his knees, and then pours a hideously thick, foul looking liquid into the cup. Steeling himself again, he empties the entire cupful down his throat, before leaning forward over the basin. I lean forward too, wondering what might happen now; and sure enough, he groans, then heaves violently, before forcibly swallowing again. We stay there for an age, apparently waiting, until Cromwell breathes in deeply and sits back on his heels, an expression of relief on his damp, grey-tinged face.

Despite myself, I cannot help but step in as Cromwell attempts to rise, "For pity's sake, Master Secretary, you are wounded!"

"No longer." He says, shortly, and lifts his shirt again. To my astonishment, the wound has gone - as though it were never there in the first place. Indifferently, he allows the linen to drop and stands, before making his way around to his chair and sitting down with a sigh.

I am at a loss; all I can think is that he has been accosted either by enemies or footpads, but how is it that he could be cured so? Mere moments ago he was dying at my feet - but now he is seated, and nothing more than a little out of breath. He has retrieved another kerchief from a drawer in his desk and is blotting the sweat from his still pallid face. He shrugs out of the cloak, and I realise he is far more roughly dressed than he would be were he in the Presence Chamber - the rich quilted doublet is instead rough broadcloth, the linen shirt unbleached; his chain of office gone, and not a jewel or ornament to be seen. I can think of no reason for him to be so poorly clad, unless he has been visiting the Cheapside whorehouses - a secret that none of us would have suspected.

Whatever his reasons for being as he is, he is tired. My thoughts as to what he has done - other than being grievously wounded - to have made himself so exhausted are, however, held as he moves again, this time reaching to his belt and removing two leather scabbards from his waist and setting them, and the swords they contain, on his desk. How could I not have noticed those when he fell? In contrast to the battered clothing, these are richly chased with glistening metal that shimmers: polished silver. No, he would not have taken _those_ into a whorehouse…

"I owe you an explanation, I think." He says, though he does not look at me - his gaze drifting tiredly across a shelf of papers and powdery volumes of great age.

"You need not explain yourself, Master Secretary," I respond, not wishing to know what he has been doing in the midst of the night - whorehouse or no whorehouse.

"Ah, but I think I do." He smiles, thinly, "You should not have been here to see my secret; but had you not been, one of the clerks would have found my lifeless corpse upon the floor on the morrow."

Secret? God's wounds, he has a mistress…or worse, he prefers men…

"The fluid in the vial is of obscure origin," Cromwell murmurs quietly, "it can heal all and any wound or hurt, though in doing so it is infinitely more cruel than the hurt it is intended to heal. It has, however, certain poisonous effects that must be countered by the ingredients in the cordial. That, too, is unpleasant, and I have on occasions been unable to tolerate it, hence the basin. Today I was more fortunate, as I was not obliged to drink a second draught having vomited up the first."

I swallow. Hard.

"I am sure that you believe me to have been engaged in unsavoury activities to have been so grievously wounded," he continues, "Those who came against me were numerous, and violent; and despite my prevailing in the end, one of them drove a dagger into my side before I was able to dispatch him. It was a deep wound, for sure - and but for you, it would have killed me."

"It is of no moment, Master Secretary," I mumble, loathing to be thanked by this tiresome commoner, but yet even loathing myself for doing so, "thanks be to God that I was here when you needed my aid, though I must confess that I am at a loss as to why you should have been set upon so - particularly within the precincts of the Palace."

He sighs, and looks away again. Whatever his secret truly is, I know he is about to tell me - but I am not prepared for his words.

"There is a darkness surrounding this Court, Mr Rich," Cromwell says, quietly, "I refer not to the dangers of displeasing the King, or even the fight against the scourge of Rome, but instead of something far deadlier. We speak of otherworldly forces - perhaps in jest, perhaps not. But they are real, and I have been tasked to fight them." He pauses, then looks directly at me, "I am a Silver Sword."


	2. Florence

The house is richly decorated with plaster figures amidst expensive brickwork; sure signs of a magnificent household, and wealth extensive enough to grant privilege, but not sufficient eminence to give cause for the ruling family of Florence to feel threat. Three floors, stuffed with tapestries, finely woven carpets and furniture carved from exotic woods and a staff of sixty - all to service the requirements of a mere eight people.

He had found his way into the establishment mostly through luck; a penniless youth of sixteen years in threadbare clothing and badly worn shoes. For all that he lacks, he is blessed with a smart mind and a quick brain - and now lives in the household as an apprentice, learning the banking trade. A long march from his origins in Putney.

Thomas looks up at the old man standing over his desk, and nods his thanks as a cup of wine is set down beside his sore right hand. He has been working over a set of accounts for nearly three hours, and his fingers are starting to cramp, "Thank you, Father Frescobaldi." His Italian is much improved, but still lacks fluency; he can, however, at least thank his master in the vernacular.

"Think nothing of it, Master Cromwell," Frescobaldi smiles, an almost paternal, indulgent expression upon his face, "Your work today has been exemplary - you are a fast learner."

Thomas reaches for the wine, "I have a good teacher." It sounds like flattery, but the words are sincere. After six months in the household, his aptitude and efficiency have not gone unnoticed - and he has responded to the tutelage of his Master with a will, to the point where Frescobaldi has begun to hint that he might find himself a part of the family's banking empire at a rather higher point of entry than most could expect given his low-born origins. The suggestion that he might even eclipse the eldest son of the family in terms of ability is also lurking somewhere, though not too overtly to avoid outbreaks of jealousy, and the inevitably messy knifings that can sometimes follow.

The pair look up as the door to the small chamber opens, admitting a steward bearing a tray from which interesting aromas emerge. While not a servant, Thomas is not a member of the family either, but Father Frescobaldi no more expects him to dine in the Servants' Hall than convention forbids him to eat with the Household. Instead, he takes his meals at his desk in his chambers. Besides, it enables him to carry on working as he eats, a habit probably not lost upon his mentor either.

"Eat well, Master Cromwell," Frescobaldi advises, "and do not stay over these papers too late. I would not wish to enter the room on the morrow and find you snoring over your desk again." His eyes twinkle humorously as he wags a reproving finger, before withdrawing from the room to join his family in the hall below.

Stifling a yawn, Thomas lifts the napkin from the tray and finds himself facing a plate of roasted partridges with thick corn porridge and bread. There is probably thyme in the sauce, perhaps also some cinnamon and other spices of costly origin. No expense spared in the noble house of Frescobaldi. The family shall be dining on this downstairs, another sign of how they value him.

Far more than his own father had…

With a sigh, and a shrug, the boy tips water from a pitcher into a terracotta basin to rinse his hands, draps the napkin over his shoulder, and sets about the partridge with a knife.

* * *

 He is jolted awake with a start by the appalling crash of a door being barged open somewhere in the house. Bemused and sleepy, Thomas looks about the darkened room; the candles all having burned down. His dinner has long since been removed and, as his master had jokingly surmised, he has - yet again - fallen asleep over the accounts. It is probably Mario slamming a door open again with the gusto of a man drunk with wine and exuberance. The second son of the family, with no inheritance and only a prospect of a future in the church, he is hardly fit for such a destination - either that or he has worked hard to ensure that he is not. A highly entertaining man to be around, though his rambunctious nature tends to be magnified when in his cups, and it is a rare night that he is not escorted home by the watch.

Rubbing at his eyes, Thomas reaches for his doublet to take it back with him to his room next door, but pauses at the sound of thumping footsteps; someone rushing upstairs in great haste…

He has no time to ponder such an odd occurrence as the door to his chambers flies open, Father Frescobaldi standing now in the doorway, his eyes saucer-wide in fright.

"Quickly, Master Cromwell!" his voice has lost the kindliness that normally accompanies his conversations with his protege, replaced now by a manic urgency, "We are under attack - you must hide yourself!" Without further explanation, the old man snatches Thomas's arm and pulls him firmly towards a small closet that normally contains brooms and cloths. Wrenching the door open, he bundles the startled youth inside, hurling the doublet in after him, but does not follow. Instead, he turns back to the desk, lights a fresh candle with a trembling hand, and attempts to offer some semblance of a man at work.

Looking out through a small knothole in the thick wood, Thomas struggles to comprehend the sudden, brainsick change in his Master's behaviour. Father Frescobaldi does not look back at the closet, but hunches over the accounts, visibly trembling - but to what end?

The answer comes swiftly, as further heavy footfalls ascend the stairs to the garret. Now he understands why Father Frescobaldi had looked so fearful, and Thomas clamps a hand over his mouth to keep back the startled cry that has tried to escape from it; for the stranger could not possibly be human…not possibly…

He…it…whatever it is…stands seven feet tall, at least. His skin is black: not the rich darkness of the men from Africa who trade in the city, but the blackness of absolute night. Thick, almost reptilian, it stretches over wasted muscles and jagged bones in the most unholy fashion, arms emerging from a velvet robe of unimaginable richness, but the nap looking to be in disarray, as though thickly washed in places with some liquid.

_I am come to take you_ , the voice is deep, a rumbling _basso_ so sepulchral that it seems to emerge from the deepest pit of hell, _My master has no wish for you to live any longer_.

"Tell me, demon." Frescobaldi's voice shakes, but he forces the words out, "Who has my family offended?"

_It is also my master's wish that you do not know._

Thomas can barely believe the words he has heard…Father Frescobaldi has used the word _Demon_ \- do people truly believe such creatures exist? He has always held such creatures with healthy scepticism, yet if this is not a demon, then what is it? Swallowing down the fear that threatens to emerge in whimpers, he keeps his eye to the knothole; a difficult task now that he is trembling as hard as his Patron appears to be.

"It is Monsignor Boccaccio, is it not?" Frescobaldi continues, "I know of the rumours of his illicit behaviours."

_Whether it is, or it is not, is of no importance. Prepare to die, as your wife and whelps have done, Guelph_.

Guelph? Thomas finds himself distracted from his fear by confusion instead. The wars between those who supported the Pope, and those who supported the Holy Roman Emperor, are over - even though rivalries remain. Surely this shall not end in bloodshed…such evil times are past, are they not? Then the rest of the sentence breaks through. The family are dead…warm, welcoming Mother Anna, sarcastic but kindly Nonna Francesca, Upstanding Paulo - only there for this one night before returning to Padua, drunken Mario, Eduardo, Susanna…and little Cristina…oh God, not little baby Cristina…now there are tears biting at his eyes.

He cannot keep back a fearful, sharp little scream as the demon lunges forward to take Father Frescobaldi by the throat. Fortunately, the ghastly creature growls horribly as it moves, drowning out his own, feeble little noise; but still it chews down grotesquely on the decent, honest man's neck - teeth grating over bone as the blood fountains from the wound to splatter the floor and the robes of the monster. Now he knows why the nap looked so befouled.

The monstrous intruder stands up, dropping the twitching body to the floor, and a gurgling chuckle emerges from its ebony throat. Frozen now with horror, Thomas waits for it to go…to get out, quickly, before he gives in to a childish need to shed tears and give himself away.

But it does not go. Instead, it drops to the floor and begins to lick up the spilled blood, crawling ever closer to the door of the closet. As it does so, Thomas becomes aware of something - a faint odour that clots his nostrils like thick mud…roses and corrupted meat…

The creature looks up, directly at the door behind which he cowers. He has done nothing to give himself away - the beast has not moved sharply enough to suggest detection; but he has no time to know if his guess is true as, at that same moment, a sharp pain stabs into the centre of his forehead, and he cannot keep back a cry of pain, or a violent flinch that sends a broom tumbling to the back wal with a hideous clatter.

The demon needs no prompting. Leaping forth, it snatches open the door to grab a handful of linen shirt and force the terrified refugee out of his hiding place. He cannot be brave - not now…he is not yet grown, how can he be brave now? Unable to stop himself, Thomas bursts into tears as he is scrutinised by the hideous thing that has slaughtered his hosts.

"Please…" he whimpers, "Please, I beg of you, let me go…please…"

There is no reply. Instead, a scaly, sharp nailed hand cups the back of his head and forces it downwards, freeing the back of his neck for the bite. Hot, moist breath close to his skin…how can it be he would die like this?

"God help me…Jesu help me…please, Jesu help me…" He is sobbing now, a boy…just a boy…but being a babe had not been enough to save Cristina…

Then, without warning, he is dropped, and lands on the blood-sticky floorboards with a heavy thud.

"Let him be, Son of Belial." A voice grates, laden with threat, "There has been enough murder this night, and I shall not see another, unless it be yours."

_Stand aside, Sword man,_ the demon hisses back, _I have feasted as my Master commanded, and I desire more. I shall take your blood too._

He can see nothing, face down on the floor and breathing wildly at his unexpected escape; just the voices, working their way in through the hissing and thumping of blood in his ears. Someone has come to him…his prayers have been answered…

"That I cannot, and will not do. I am sworn to fight all of your kind, and so I shall - but in this case, it shall be no fight. It shall be a death."

A roar, thumping footsteps, then the swish of something passing through the air at speed…a wet slice, a thud, then silence.

It seems to go on forever, the silence…then a hand on his shoulder. Overwhelmed by panic, Thomas lashes out at the presumed attack, his arms flailing wildly as he screams and curses. It doesn't matter who has won whatever battle has played out…the kindly Frescobaldi family, who had taken him in when he had nothing left but the cold chill of hunger and homelessness…they are gone…all gone…

"Easy, boy. Easy. The beast is dead. I have killed him for you. See?" The stranger soothes, like a loving parent, allowing his storm of horror and tears to pass, "Even his remains are no more - for the earth will not tolerate such stain. You are safe now. I regret that I was not in time to save the rest; but at least one lives."

Setting a fallen chair upright, the stranger guides Thomas into it and retrieves scattered candles. With flint, steel and spill, he revives the lost light, and emerges from shadows to stand over the boy whose only answer to his act of rescue appears to be a mutinous glare. He is not particularly tall, but is instead wide; a heavy-set, powerfully muscular man dressed in black. A wide brimmed hat of unfamiliar style conceals much of his face, though not the fact that his entire countenance is encased in a featureless mask of black papier mâché; a disguise almost as fearsome for its lack of expression as the creature that has died at its wearer's hands.

As it becomes clear that the youth before him is not inclined to speak, the stranger reaches into his clothing and retrieves a leather bottle. Reaching for a cup that has tumbled across the floor, he pours out a small measure and hands it to Thomas, "Here; drink this. It will help."

Slowly, as though each movement is a mortal sin to commit, the boy's hand comes up to take the proffered cup. He stares at it for a while, trying to assess the contents, before lifting the cup to his lips and emptying the liquid down his throat as though he hopes it might be poison. Unprepared for the rough strength of the country-still liquor, he chokes briefly, then looks up at the stranger who has come so unexpectedly in answer to his sobbed prayer.

"It smells." Why has he said that? Where has such a mad statement come from? Why is he not showing gratitude?

The stranger pauses, and stares at him, "What did you say? A smell? Do you mean the Liquor?"

Thomas feels compelled to explain, "No, not that. The…creature…as it came near to my place of concealment…a foul stench - like roses and rotting meat." Unable to find the words in Italian, he has spoken instead in his mother tongue - but this does not seem to faze his saviour, who is looking at him as though with new eyes.

"You were able to smell the beast?" He repeats, changing languages without effort. He seems quite firm on the point.

"How could I not? It was as though my nostrils had been stopped up with mud…and it hurt…" He is rambling again…he really should stop talking. Surely the liquor hasn't been that strong, "As though a poniard had been driven into my forehead."

The stranger is now almost fixed upon him, as though that motionless mask has developed the ability to express emotion. The eyes, the only visible vestige of the man beneath are flitting back and forth, "You felt pain? None of our kind has achieved such sensitivity to the ichor in two hundred years…" He pauses, then stands, "There is nothing for you here now, boy." He says, almost formally, "I offer you a roof over your head, food in your belly and the opportunity to avenge those who died this night. What is your choice?"

Vaguely, Thomas looks up. The silence seems riven with noiseless screams of the dead. He has survived where others have not. All he wants is to hide away and die so that he might join those who should have lived when instead they had died. But one word…one word…

"Vengeance." He murmurs, "I wish for vengeance."

The stranger nods, "Then you accept my offer. Gather what belongings you may. We shall depart this night."


	3. Conference in the Dark

I stare at Cromwell, bemused at his words, "A _what_?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he pushes himself out of his chair and crosses to a dresser, where he retrieves a small earthenware bottle of sack and two glasses. Setting them upon the table, he returns to the dresser to add a lump of cheese and a small loaf of rough bread to the bounty. As though stalling for time, he pours out two measures of the sack, then saws at the bread with a knife not quite sharp enough for the purpose, before abandoning it and ripping the loaf apart with his hands.

"You must understand," he says, eventually, "that what I am about to tell you is known to no one else at Court, or even in England. Only one man knew, but he is dead, and now no one is left on these shores with the secret but I. And I am that secret."

This cryptic speech offers nothing in terms of explanation, and yet it is so enticing that I lean forward, eager to learn more despite a cynical disbelief in the strange drama of his words. Rather than enlighten me, Cromwell drops a hunk of bread onto a spare piece of paper on my side of the desk, and offers me cheese. Irked, I snatch at the glass of sack and drain it, before glaring at him expectantly as he sits down again and leans back in the chair.

"During the first Crusade," he begins, his eyes half closed, "in the midst of the bloodshed, two men came together and recognised that there was a greater threat to the wellbeing of mankind than which faith held sway in Jerusalem. You might be aware of their names - Godfrey de Bouillon and Kilij Arlsan." He stops again, and drops a morsel of cheese into his mouth. My foot twitches under the table with a sincere desire to kick him as he chews. What is he talking about? Why do the two main belligerents of the First Crusade have anything to do with his being stabbed this night? Why does he have to hold things up with cheese?

He swallows the cheese, "As battles raged in the Holy Land, it was clear that there were others present. Others who were treating the upheaval as an opportunity to feast upon those who would not be likely to be missed. Unholy beings had taken it upon themselves to enter into the fray, and it was clear to the highest commanders that their predations could be far worse than any losses upon the field. They were descending as vultures upon a corpse." He stops once more. I am again sorely tempted to kick him. This time I almost do. He's talking as though he was there himself: either his imagination is uncontrolled, or he is mad. I rather hope for the latter. I might be able to supplant him. I feel sure I should kick myself for thinking that.

He sends a mouthful of sack after the morsel of cheese, then continues, "After consulting with the gathered scholars of Jerusalem, they agreed that the threat could not be battled by armies, priests or kings. One elderly Jew had found that certain people possess the ability to detect creatures of unholy origin; and he advised that any who might combat such monsters should be sought out and trained to fight them. They also determined that these creatures are repelled by silver, so it was decided that those recruited to the cause would use weapons of silver."

He stops again, but this time I don't feel tempted to kick him, as he reaches out for one of the scabbards and withdraws the weapon it contains. I cannot help but stare, open mouthed, at a thing of such beauty; long and thin, expertly forged and with a gentle curve, it has no decoration but for an enamelled black bird at the hilt, and there is nothing ostentatious about it at all - a deadly wonder. There is, however, something about it that I cannot identify - something about the colour of the blade…surely he was not truthful about a precious metal in that weapon?

"The blade is a merging of steel and silver, Mr Rich." Cromwell explains, "A precise amalgamation of one and the other to preserve the finest qualities of both. Dark beings can survive the taste of iron, and even steel. But not silver. Those who cannot die on the point of a weapon are always vanquished by this." He smiles then; an odd, almost affectionate smile that is directed at the glorious blade in his hand, "They've kept me alive for ten years or more."

"Until tonight." I remind him, a little churlishly.

His smile becomes rueful, "Aye. That's true." Returning the blade to the scabbard, he sets it aside and then leans on his elbows, his chin on his hands, and looks directly at me. "I have explained myself to you. Now; what do you plan to do?"

This question surprises me, "What do you expect me to do?"

Cromwell's gaze doesn't flinch, "We are obliged to act with absolute secrecy and discretion. In normal circumstances, each Silver Sword placed in a Royal Court works with an appointed individual who researches mysteries and seeks information to aid him in his fight.  That individual is referred to as a 'Second'. When I was first dispatched here to begin my mission, I was assigned the assistance of Cardinal Wolsey…"

" _Wolsey?_ " I cannot stop myself from interrupting, astonished that the old, corrupt butcher's son could have had such an illustrious purpose. No, that cannot be right. A little disturbed by such a revelation, I pick at the bread before me, peeling crumbs over the paper.

"Wolsey." He confirms, then continues, "In doing so, he was aware of all that I did, gathered intelligence to assist me in my work, and amassed a library of great use. Despite his faults - which were many - he was a capable, solid mentor and friend. I would not have abandoned him when he fell had he not demanded it of me." He looks distant for a moment, and not a little sad. I realise why; when Wolsey lost the King's favour, everyone assumed that all who worked with him would be removed from service as he was - yet Cromwell turned his coat and left his former mentor to face ignominy and death alone. I had so despised him for that…placing his own advancement ahead of loyalty in such fashion. Yet now it appears that he had been compelled to do it - and doing so had caused him great hurt. I find myself swallowing, uncomfortably, at this revelation.

"Since that time, I have worked entirely alone, on my own initiative. While this is useful in many circumstances, in others it is not; such as the events that have passed this night. Had I returned here alone, I should have bled out my life upon the floor and caused a great stir in the light of day. Therefore, knowing now what you know, I can only give you a choice. That you must keep my secret is not a matter for negotiation. It's simple - you must."

I shudder inside. There is no threat in his words, but at the same time I know that if I were to blab, I would surely die upon the point of the beautiful blade that he has just shown me. Perhaps that is why he did it.

"If I were to talk," I counter, a little spitefully, "Who would believe me? Your words are brain-sick, and would make me sound so."

He does not rise to the vague insult, but levels his eyes at mine. I feel that I am seeing him almost for the first time; all that he is suddenly laid bare before me. I have spent so long working beside him, hating him for his base origins and seeing only that. Perhaps it has blinded me to things I should have been better knowing. Then I realise that it has. The times that he has come into the chambers with a limp, or winced awkwardly as he has placed a file upon a high shelf. A contusion on his chin; even on one occasion a blackened eye which all the clerks pondered about - though no one dared to ask how he had acquired it. It seems he does not use the foul liquid in the vial for every hurt he receives, then.

I squirm under his silent scrutiny, feeling as though he is reading my thoughts. Perhaps he is. I can no longer be sure after what has passed this night. Finally, he breaks that dreadful silence.

"I know you have no liking for me, Mr Rich." He advises, "It is of supreme disinterest to me whether or not it would have mattered to you had I died here tonight. I have only one concern other than the continued secrecy of my mission. Trust does not need to come from being kindly disposed to another. It can also be an agreement of mutual benefit to two parties. You can maintain my secret, and I can refrain from killing you." His voice has become very quiet - chillingly so.

I swallow again, trying to think of a suitable riposte to the threat he has just issued. Unconcerned, he takes another gulp of sack as though waiting to see what I say. Instead, I try a glare, and reach for my cup to throw another mouthful of sack down my throat. I tip it back sharply, but it's empty and the defiant gesture achieves nothing more than to send a rogue droplet up to my eye, where it hangs off my eyelid like a tear.

"I would, however," he resumes, "Prefer a more amicable working partnership. As you have proved to me, I cannot continue to operate entirely alone. The risks I face are too great, and I have been vainglorious for long enough. Therefore, while I expect you to keep my secret, I would find it a great help if you would become my Second. As I have said, it is of no importance that you do so out of fond feeling for me. Merely that you do so with discretion and honesty."

I stare at him, open mouthed. Despite knowing I loathe him, despite knowing my reputation about the Court, he is offering his trust to me - on a plate and garnished with sweetmeats.

"It would not be an easy task." Cromwell's eyes seem almost to darken in the candlelight, "For reasons I have yet to determine, the forces ranged against me are growing in number. I need your intellect, Mr Rich. Your logical mind. Whether or not you have skills with weaponry is of lesser import. All that concerns me is another pair of eyes to scan the library that his late Eminence was able to accumulate on my behalf. I have spies to do the rest."

The suggestion that I would not be expected to shed blood on his behalf both relieves and angers me, but he does not seem to have any realisation that I am insulted. Instead he looks right into my eyes once more. "Will you do it?"


	4. Milan

The birch whistles through the air, applied firmly to bare buttocks. The owner of the unfortunate flesh yelps tearfully, while five pairs of eyes watch in sympathy. It is Laurentin again. Poor, confused Laurentin: they were supposed to be speaking Flemish today, but he has answered a question in his native French. All transgressions, however minor, are punished so - in the belief, perhaps, that it persuades the students to not make the same mistake again. It seems not to work with Laurentin. He has never gained the ability to think in any language other than his own.

In the four years since his arrival, Thomas Cromwell has rarely required such chastisement for linguistic slips. The weeks that he spent in the company of his rescuer from Florence have prepared him for the rigours of such brutal scholarship, and he has a brain quick enough to gather together the threads of a language and weave them into sufficient cloth to express himself efficiently.

In all that time, however, he has never discovered the identity of the man who saved his life - a face permanently hidden behind an inscrutable mask. Instead he has been brought to Milan, and installed in an anonymous building with few outward facing doors, and set to work at lessons.

At first, he chafed against the rigid routine that bound the days of all the young men who study there; and he had been obliged to bend over the wooden horse more than once for his intransigence. His natural intelligence, however, has quickly vanquished that foolishness with a fascination in the learning, as his quick mind has leaped to the challenge of intensive study.

And then there is Joachim. A year older than he; tall, long of limb and fair of countenance, but in particular blessed with a towering intellect and ribald humour that has drawn the English youth to him like iron filings to a magnet. They are two northerners in a sea of Southern Europeans, and quickly agreed to share a cell as well as their studies, and now fight to outdo each other in their achievements both in letters and fighting - for they are obliged to study both pursuits. Further, they share his nightmares - dreams from which he wakes, sweat-soaked and fearful - and they sit upon their wooden cots talking together in the darkness until he dares to sleep again.

They all know why they are here - at least in small measure. The Masters tell them only what they need to know; but they are tested rigorously, and those who fail are obliged to leave; no matter how far they have come, or how closely they have come to success. Thomas sighs to himself; Laurentin cannot hope to remain much longer - he cannot accommodate the differences in the languages that they are obliged to speak.

Departing to the refectory for the midday meal, Thomas staggers slightly at the thump of a heavy arm landing across his shoulders, "So, brave Tom, how was it with you this morning?" The voice is loud, the Flemish accented slightly with the German tones of Nuremberg.

"I am surely well, Joachim," He answers, cheerfully, "Though Laurentin was birched again. He cannot master his Flemish verbs."

Joachim sighs, his eyes sympathetic, "He is but a youth - younger than any of us, and his talent is limited. He would do far better in a University where he can train his mind upon one language at a time." Leaning closer, he whispers conspiratorially, "I have done well for us, noble brother; a fine riesling from the Master's table awaits us in our cell for careful inspection and sampling this night."

"You took from the Master's wine store?" Thomas stares at him, astonished, "Why take such a risk? It would not be the birch for you, it would be the lash!"

"They teach us stealth, do they not? Besides, who would notice? The number of bottles in the cellar is beyond counting - and they could not hope to know whose fingers had been amongst them even if one were missed. It seems most ill mannered of our less than kindly Masters that they should sample the finest of beverages while we are obliged to sup weak ale. Should they not share?"

Despite himself, Thomas cannot help but smile at such audacity, "Then let us hope that it is of sufficient vintage to be worth the forbearance of punishment if we are caught."

"We?" Joachim asks, his eyebrow cocked, "I felt it most rude of the Masters to not share with the students. But I might consider your interest in joining me in my bacchanalian endeavour for, say, two florins?"

"I would be most keen," Thomas advises, "Though I should be obliged if you could do me the honour of lending me two florins. To meet such a debt."

"Done, then!" Joachim announces, expansively, "Tonight we shall sup like Kings!" Laughing, he breaks into a run, his friend chasing behind, as the refectory doors begin to be closed.

* * *

The corridors are darkening as the evening passes into night. Masters and students are gradually making their way back to their cells or common rooms now that the day's work is done.

Thomas has spent much of the afternoon in the saddle, learning how to mount a horse at the gallop as the men of the eastern steppes are rumoured to be able to do. It has been the third lesson he has spent at such an endeavour; but, after endless bruises, grazes and bumps, he has finally caught whatever trick it is that made such a feat possible. His return to his cell to try the illicit riesling is a cheerful walk of celebration.

"Ho, Joachim!" he greets, cheerfully, opening the door of the cell, "I have conquered the mount! Let us celebrate…" the words dry in his mouth at the sight of their immediate master. They make a grim tableau - the old man standing over his friend, who is seated forlornly at their shared table - the unopened bottle of riesling a silent accusation in the candlelight.

As he had feared that very afternoon; it is not the birch for Joachim, but instead the lash. All are assembled to watch the chastisement, as such a punishment is extremely rare. To add to the humiliation, the Grand Master - a man they almost never see - is present, to mete out the sentence. Standing amongst the assembly, Thomas shudders. How had they known? It seems their records were more complete than expected - maybe they searched the cells…

"Joachim of Nuremberg," the Grand Master intones, gravely, "You have stolen from the Masters. While we demand the ability to move with stealth and care, and even theft may not be discounted when the situation demands; the absolute failure is to be caught. All bottles are marked, and their presence is counted each day. Do you think you are the first to steal wine? Know then that your punishment is not for the theft, which is forgivable, but for failing to hide your theft - which is not." He looks up, "Thomas of London. Step forth."

Startled, he does as bid, "Yes, Grand Master."

"Master Nuremberg assures me that you had no part in this act; that it was his, and his alone, and you had no knowledge of it. Therefore, in placing you at risk of guilt by association, he has acted against you; and you are to administer his punishment. Ten lashes."

He stares, his eyes widening in horror, "Grand Master, I…" he falters under the implacable stare, and glumly accepts the whip.

"Our kind must be absolutely ruthless in our aims. The darkness does not care for conscience or scruples, and these must be set aside if the need demands. Ten lashes. If you refuse, or do not apply the whip properly, you shall face the same."

"Do as he says, Tom," Joachim whispers, "I will not blame you for any of it, for the Grand Master is right."

He shudders again, the thought sickening him. Unable to stop himself, he closes his eyes and turns away as two of the senior students divest Joachim of his shirt and bind him to a frame. Why this? Why is he the one to have to do it? Even though he was not been responsible for the theft, he knew of it…he should admit to it…

But he cannot. Shaken at such cowardice, he begins to tremble, then forces himself to stand up straight. It has to be done - and who would it serve if he falters? Perhaps this is why he has been given the task - the Masters know, and this is a punishment as much as a lesson. They probably know that he had at least some knowledge of the theft, even if he has not participated in it. Best to get it over with and apologise to Joachim tonight. Taking a deep breath, he takes a step forward, and prepares to strike.

By the end of it, Joachim has fainted, and Thomas is not far off doing much the same. Sickened by the blood, and his blame for it, he feels himself swaying, and berates himself for his weakness. If he does drop, he shall probably end up being birched for such lily-livered foolishness. The absolute requirement is for detachment; to be blind to all but the goal set by those who direct them. It is only now that he understands how difficult a lesson it is to learn.

Handing the whip back to a Master, he watches his closest friend being carefully carried from the hall. Despite the anger directed at Joachim, they shall not stint on the care that shall follow as they treat his wounds; Joachim is one of their finest students - he would not normally have been so careless as to have been caught for something so simple…

The thought sticks, pulling him out of his faintness. How had Joachim been discovered? He is not fool enough to hide contraband in their cell, for fear that a search might reveal it and implicate an innocent party. That is something they had both considered from the beginning, and they have various hiding places. Maybe he had been caught retrieving it, but by whom?

"Poor fool." The urbane voice behind him causes him to tense up instantly with deep dislike, its rich Italian timbre cutting through the tones of the Spanish that is the day's language, "Does he truly think that he can act unseen?"

"Leave me be, Alessandro." Thomas growls, his loathing dripping from his voice like acid, "I have no interest in listening to your gloating."

"Perhaps not." The owner of the hated voice smiles, stepping into his view now, "But the Masters certainly did." Smirking, Alessandro saunters away.

The room is still full of people - including most of the Masters…the richly dressed Italian can speak with impunity, protected by the crowd about him. If Thomas reacts, then he shall almost certainly not be birched, he shall be lashed too - and nothing on earth could impel him to give Alessandro such satisfaction. Clenching his fists, he forces himself to stand still; fighting down a desperate urge to leap at the hated youth and beat him to the floor.

Alessandro of Genoa - wealthy, spoiled; not overly talented, but sufficiently so to get through the tests that are set for them, for he is of noble rank and thus has received a degree of education that many of his fellows students lack. His countenance and manner earn him few friends, so he purchases them with his ostentatious riches instead. There are high-ranking churchmen in his family, and much of the wealth he bears so openly comes from ill-found sources, which can be the only reason for his comparative wealth within the House – as all youths must give up their identities and all they possess to enter it. The clothes worn by all students are simple and plain - but his are of a finer cut and materials - his gifts, if not his garments, can be quite handsome, and many hover about him in hopes of largesse. If there had been no cause for enmity between the Northerners and this popinjay before, there is now.

Joachim is returned to their cell after midnight, pale and sweat-streaked, but no longer hurt. Open wounds are always treated with the sovereign specific, despite the greater pain it causes, and he has clearly vomited up the cordial several times before he has been able to hold it down. Guiding him to his cot, Thomas offers him dry bread to help calm his stomach, "It was Alessandro. He informed upon you, I think."

"He did, Tom. The Grand Master told me so. He received a slap for his pains, but the damage was done and I was caught." He scowls, then, "I owe that self-serving jackanapes a favour in return, then. Damned Popish knave."

"Popish?" Thomas cannot help but smile as Joachim's northern religious sensibilities come to the surface - easily stirred by the vile Alessandro.

"Aye, Popish. Damn them all for their false piety and hypocrisy. How can you see them in any other fashion? Stealing wealth from the poor and leaving them with no true succour, while offering absolution to the vilest of the rich for they have the coin to afford indulgences. The Church is rotting, Thomas - and that creature is the spawn of its cankerous decay."

He sighs. Joachim is always at his most serious when he calls him by his full name rather than just Tom; but his words make sense; even after yet another repetition. Why all the need to approach God in one place, and one alone? Why through the auspices of the priests? If God is worthy of the highest worship, why do they spend so much time bowing before saints - yet condemned idolatry as they do so?

Joachim sighs, "Enough, Tom. It is enough. From the morrow, I shall ensure that Alessandro pays dearly for his insult. I shall show him that money, and Church connections, are no match for ability and skill. Are you with me?"

Thomas cannot help but smile, "Always."

* * *

They open hostilities the very next morning - admittedly by chance only, as the language of the day is Flemish again; the one tongue with which Alessandro struggles. As the eldest of the students, they are now expected to be fluent - a simple matter for Joachim, who has spent some of his childhood in Bruges - but Alessandro is not, and a simple, but fundamental, error of grammar is the flashpoint.

Thomas has allowed his friend to bring the fault to light - it is not tale-bearing, as the Master has paused, eyebrow raised, as though awaiting a correction from the assembled group. While Joachim has perhaps been rather _too_ detailed in his explanation, it has not lessened the satisfaction of watching Alessandro's birching for his lapse.

From that point on, it is all-out war. Alessandro cannot hope to best the two northerners in any academic pursuit, as he lacks the same degree of sharp intellect. Instead he relies upon underhand activities on the practice field, and sets his numerous, gift-purchased allies to watch their every move. Never before have the two youths referred to as 'the Northern Rogues' by their masters been so absolutely well behaved and compliant with the rules of the house. Nor have they been quite so smug about it, either. To add insult to injury, the attempts to outdo them falsely in physical pursuits serve only to increase their ability to counter such tactics.

Instead, Alessandro moves on to irritating Joachim's Lutheran sensibilities like a flea on a cat's back. His gold crucifix is large and ostentatious; his prayers long and his rosary never far from his hand. Crossing himself at every opportunity, or promising to appeal to one saint or another depending upon the circumstance, he thrusts his faith into their faces with an almost obsessive determination. While the two find such obvious piety tiresome, neither rise to it. They leave that to Michael, the Jew from Naples, and Talib, the Saracen from Jerusalem.

As the summer approaches, bringing with it the prospect of examinations and tests, Thomas feels no interest in maintaining hostilities. It is rumoured that two sets of swords have become available to be assigned: the pinnacle of all they have worked for - and some have awaited this moment for six years or more, for swords are relinquished infrequently. To have been in training for only four is a remarkable stroke of fortune. He has lost count of the times he has regaled his German friend with the words of his masked mentor about this moment. " _All hangs upon this test, boy_." The stranger had said, " _Your ability to detect darkness is not in doubt - but your ability to meet the challenges that such darkness brings is paramount, and this one test will determine whether you receive swords, or are dispatched back to the place from whence you came. The tests are only held when swords are there to be claimed - always be ready_."

This is, after all, the primary goal: to receive Swords. While few are admitted to the anonymous courts of their college, fewer still graduate to receive the weapons that Thomas so admired in the gauntleted hands of his rescuer. The final test shall be the hardest that they have faced - not just for their skill, but their courage and commitment, too. If they fail, then there shall be no second chance. Despite everything that had filled him with such terror that night in the Frescobaldi household, his greatest wish is to be granted weapons, and avenge those cruel deaths. To fail now would be no better than to have died in that garret.

"I do not blame you for your choice." Joachim admits, "Perhaps you are wiser than I; but I cannot allow this to rest. I had my first taste of the sovereign specific that night - at his prompting, and I feel that I still owe him for his generosity."

"Perhaps - but enough is enough, Joachim," Thomas presses the point, worriedly, "Surely you would not risk all for some pointless feud? For that is what it is - and who does it serve in the end? Let it lie. Perhaps, if you do so, Alessandro will tire of it also. Or perhaps he will continue it to pointless ends and cause himself to fail his examinations. That might be the most satisfactory outcome for all. We receive our swords and make our way into the world, while he is obliged to depart. What could be better payment for his act?

Joachim shrugs, and flops back on his cot, "Maybe. But, as you say, enough is enough. Tomorrow is the French _viva voce_ , and that in itself is sufficient cause to sweat. My verbs are not as well stored in my brain as they are in yours." He winks, roguishly, and blows out the last candle.

For three weeks, they sweat and suffer the toils of examinations. Mistakes shall not be punished with the birch - but a sufficient number shall deny them all that they have worked for, so even the tiresome Alessandro appears to respect the truce. From written and spoken work, they progress on to the physical tests - and so exhausting are the trials that the candidates consider the mere walk back to their cells to be too great an effort to bother with arguments.

Then, at last; the final test. Unlike the other trials, during which they have been tested alone, this is the most important of all. All are required to participate at the same time, with a view to attaining a single goal. Of the eight who had begun the trials, only five now remain, the others having been withdrawn either through injury, or failure at a previous test. The masters say nothing, but all know that Thomas and Joachim are at the forefront, as both have excelled all the trials that they have faced.

Now the Grand Master is standing before them, his expression grave, yet pleased, "You have done well, gentlemen." He advises, quietly, "but now you must rely solely upon your wits and strength. You must make your way through the halls of this building to the highest room in the tower - but you must do so without being detected. You must not work in partnership with one another, nor should you speak to any soul from this point until the test is ended. In the high tower, you shall find something of great value that you must retrieve. There are five of you, but only two such rewards - for there are but two pairs of swords. Those of you who reach the tower without being seen or stopped, but are too late to receive these rewards, shall be granted a second chance to try when more swords are returned to the House. Those of you who are seen shall fail and must leave. You have two hours." Turning on his heel, he stalks away.

Thomas and Joachim exchange a glance. Only two rewards - then they must obtain them. Nodding briefly, Joachim smiles and heads down a corridor. Watching him go, Thomas pauses and considers the options open to him.

The way shall be guarded, that is certain. Perhaps better not to use the corridor, then? Delving into his highly organised memory, he closes his eyes and begins to visualise a route that shall take him where he needs to go, but not via conventional means. Then, with a quiet nod, he moves to a small doorway and steps out onto a parapet. Since the corridors are watched, the chances are that the roofs and walls are not; and he has not faltered at any point when asked to climb; besides, some of their most successful japes have hinged upon his knowledge of the college rooftops. Thank God the weather is dry and sunny - plenty of shadows in which to conceal himself as he goes.

Setting aside his shoes and doublet, Thomas scans the tower walls and roofs. Most shall have windows overlooking them, but probably not from the northern side, as that is faced only by a blank wall. Surrounded by large buildings as they are, some elements of the college are bizarre to look at, as though transported from another world that exists a crazed mind. Once he is on the north side of the tower, he can essentially make his way upwards entirely unobserved. It shall take fifteen minutes at the most - he has done it more than once, and usually in the dark.

Oddly, it proves actually to be harder to do in daylight, as he is now distracted by the various ledges and crannies that he normally cannot see. Moving carefully, he eases his way upwards in a methodical fashion, until he reachs the parapet he has been aiming for. Once on that, it shall be a simple matter to slip through the door and upstairs into the tower room beyond. Should fortune be on his side, not only shall he claim one of the prizes, but he shall do so in a time that shall cause wonder to any who come after him - after all, no one has ever, even in the fanciful legends that the students shared between themselves, been claimed to have completed this trial by climbing up the tower wall. With a good head for heights, it has been far easier than attempting to evade patrolling masters in the corridors below.

Not being foolish enough to assume that the door to the prizes shall be unguarded, Thomas crouches beside the door and sets his eye to the keyhole. There is but one staircase between him and the room in which his goal awaits; and, sure enough, one Master is patrolling. He is, however, not standing still - instead he stands at the foot of the stairs, and then moves away, then returns.

_Wait…wait…_

Fighting his impatience, Thomas waits for his breathing to settle, then counts the gaps between three return journeys by measuring his pulse. At his best guess, the period of time between one patrol and the next is two minutes. Ample time to get in, provided he can do it quietly. There is an alcove he could get to that shall serve well as a hiding place while he awaits the next departure. The hinges to the door do not look excessively rusted, so there is hope that he shall not alert the Master when he opens it.

His hand still at his throat to measure the throb of his blood, he counts again as the Master turns and departs on another patrol. After thirty beats, he judges himself safe to make an attempt at the door. Chafing against the need for silence and care, he lifts the latch with aching slowness, then opens the door as little as possible to slip through the gap before taking as much time to close it again. Even as he does so, he can almost feel the sense of eyes boring into his back, and he expects, when he turns to scan the corridor, that a Master shall be looking at him with contempt for his presumption that the task could be so easy.

No one there…

Sighing with relief, Thomas slips hastily into the alcove. It is sufficiently distant from the spot that the Master has chosen to use as a sentry post that the sound of his breathing shall not be noticed, or the tang of sweat that is now emerging from his garments thanks to his exertions. One skill that he has mastered with almost as much facility as climbing is to stand absolutely still and silent for longer than most could hope to endure; and now is his best chance to demonstrate that talent; but quickly - the Master's footsteps even now strike the flagstones with clipped thuds.

As he watches from his hiding place, Thomas wonders at how little vigilance the apparent guard is showing at his task - until he remembers; the trial was supposed to last for two hours. It is likely that barely a quarter of that time has passed, so he could not possibly be expecting any candidate to have got so far so quickly. Yawning, the Master waits briefly, as he has on each previous occasion, before setting off on another patrol.

Unshod, Thomas has no fear of being overheard, and silently pads to the stairs that led up to their collective goal. Moving carefully in the darkened stairway, he ascends quickly, and enters the small room at the top.

There…a table draped with a finely woven tablecloth, upon which sit two sets of gauntlets. Intrigued, Thomas approaches, then hastily snatches up the closest pair. He is not obliged to return downstairs unseen - but the opportunity does not arise. Instead, he looks up, almost in fright, at the Grand Master, who is watching him from a darkened corner in clear fascination. Rather than speak, however, the older man greets him with an inclination of his head, and indicates a nearby chair. Clutching his prize, he sits. Now to wait.

They sit together in silence for nearly an hour, waiting for the second set of gauntlets to be claimed; it is the sound of scratching from outside that first alerts Thomas to the imminent arrival of another candidate - but it is coming from outside the tower wall…

Curiosity overcoming his manners, he crosses to the small, unglazed window. It is wide enough to get through, so maybe someone else has opted to use his unorthodox method of entry.

_Joachim_ …Thomas stares, astonished; what has driven him to take such a risk? Not only is he far less comfortable with heights, he still has his shoes on - how on earth can he feel for footholds if his toes are encased in leather?

Then he understands. Alessandro is in the long corridor. There must be hiding places along its length to evade the patrolling Master, and Joachim's determination to get to the prize before the hated Italian has driven him out onto the walls. And he can do nothing to help…to do so would see Joachim expelled.

Then, a shout in the corridor: the Master guarding the way. Thomas cannot not keep back a vicious smirk at the realisation that Alessandro has been discovered. _No swords for him, then_. Still smiling, he looks down to Joachim, whose climb can now be leisurely, as he no longer has a competitor…only to see his dearest friend lose his footing on the uncertain stones, and - with a horrible scream - drop with flailing arms and legs to the hard stone courtyard four storeys below.


	5. The Cold Light of Day

I am rather confused by the information that has been handed to me in such a short time. A matter of hours ago, I was working on papers; but now I am standing on the edge of a fight that I am not at all sure I wish to become involved with. To make matters worse, if I do so, I must stand alongside a man that I loathe. Or do I? I find myself wondering how much of my antipathy is due to my impressions, rather than any actual reason given to me by Cromwell himself.

He does not press me for an answer. Instead, he gathers together a pair of black leather gauntlets, each embossed on the back with a sigil - a bird of some sort. A crow, perhaps? I am not sure. It seems, however, to match the enamelled bird I saw on the sword. It must be a personal crest - though he is not a nobleman, or even really a Gentleman, so he should not have such a device.

Curiosity overcomes me, "What is the bird?"

Cromwell's eyebrows rise - surprised at the question, "It's a Raven, Mr Rich." He advises, quietly. "It was the name that was granted to me when I received the swords. We are required to maintain anonymity to all but our Seconds, so we use our sigils as codes for ourselves. Mine, therefore, is 'Raven'. There - see, I have handed you my anonymity. Thus you are my Second - all I require from you now is your agreement." For a moment, he smiles again, a rather bleak smile. He knows that I am struggling with the decision.

The clock outside strikes five. So engrossed have I been in the strange events of the night that, until that point, not a single chime had reached my ears. The bell seems to galvanise Cromwell too, who gathers the glasses, sack and half eaten food to replace them on the dresser, then he carefully packs the medicinal items that I have scattered about back into his black coffer, pausing only to carefully dribble wax from one of the candles over the seal of the vial, then closes it before turning to the large cupboard in the corner that he never opens when others are in the room. As he unlocks and opens it, I find myself craning to the side in order to see what it contains. I am not sure whether to be surprised or not at the ranks of weaponry within; a small crossbow with bolts of both wood and metal, a long poniard, daggers, throwing knives - even a longbow. But no guns.

Again, I feel as though he can read my mind as he turns to look at me, "I don't use pistols," he advises, "They make too much noise; I operate almost exclusively at night - the sound of a gunshot would wake half the palace." He turns back to the cupboard, and beckons me to join him as he sets the coffer on a shelf. Despite myself, I cannot help but do so - the prospect of seeing into this secrecy is too enticing.

"For some time, now," Cromwell continues, "the court has been plagued with night-time predations by a being who drinks blood. On most occasions, the victim is not killed, but is severely weakened - though why that should be is still something I have not been able to fathom. The form of creature I suspect to be responsible does not usually show such mercy. I can only assume that they wish to remain within the court undetected; which would be impossible were they to kill the ones they drain."

Drinking blood? Now the conversation has moved from the handing over of anonymity to the apparent assumption that I have accepted, and merely have to say the word for the sake of appearances. Yet still, I cannot be certain that I wish to accept the task offered to me - not if something that drinks blood - _blood_ \- is at large about the narrow, circuitous passages of the Palace. I should far rather be safely behind closed doors.

Cromwell reaches into the cupboard, and retrieves one of the wooden bolts, "Revenants such as these can be dispatched by beheading with a silver blade, such as one of my swords - but a stake of wood to the heart is equally efficacious. In each case, the creature dissolves to dust, so the issue of clearing a body is not present." This last statement is delivered with such casual indifference that I cannot help but turn and stare at him. There is, however, a strange look on his face; a distaste that suggests bad memory. He pauses for a moment, as though held by something in front of his eyes.

"Revenants?" I ask - partly for more information, but mostly to nudge him out of that silent reverie. There is an edge of horror lurking about his expression that disturbs me.

He shakes himself slightly, blinks, then frowns, forcing himself back to the present, "Beings that are dead - yet not dead. Doubtless other peoples have names for them, but their nature caused me to grant them that description some years ago."

In that moment, I see something I've never seen before: a sense of vulnerability and sadness that comes from a deeper source than merely a melancholic nature. Loneliness, perhaps? Yes - he is lonely - desperately so; weighed down by a burden that cries out to be shared, but is not. I loathe this man - despise him. I am using my association with him purely for my own benefit - to further my advancement…and yet…

My mind is made up. I look at him, "Mr Cromwell, I will be your Second."

Cromwell turns to me; his smile this time has lost much of its bleakness, and is far warmer. For the first time, I wonder if it could be possible that I could find friendship with this man that I have disliked for as long as I have known him. Even someone he struggles to like is preferable to no one, I suppose.

Closing the cupboard, and carefully locking it, he ushers me back to the chair I had vacated, and seats himself opposite me again. He pauses for a while before he speaks; marshalling his thoughts, perhaps.

"I feel I must ask your forgiveness, Richard," He begins, "I have placed a great burden upon you with little explanation or care for your thoughts and feelings. My work is hard, and it will interfere greatly with your work within the Court - almost as much as it does with mine. I imagine you resented greatly my leaving you last evening with such tedious papers when I departed." His expression becomes sardonic. He knows full well that I did.

"Was it to undertake some task, then?" I ask.

He nods, "William, my manservant, brought to my attention a gathering of revenants; drawn by the large numbers of people present at last night's feasting. They were hiding in a cellar, awaiting the opportunity to waylay those departing from the gathering, when I came upon them. Even I am not fool enough to engage more than one opponent in such a confined space, so I fled from them as though in fear - the emotion of fear seems to excite their hunger more. Once in a courtyard, it was a simple matter to deal with them; though one was more agile than I anticipated, and was armed with a blade."

"How many were there? You speak of a group."

He eyes me closely, clearly in anticipation of my reaction, "Five."

He is rewarded handsomely. My jaw drops - again, "You battled _five_ assailants with no aid? That is surely a joke at my expense - even with two blades, how could that have been possible?"

"I have been well trained," Cromwell is smiling again, but I know that he is not making fun of me, "and my swords were made by the finest swordsmith in Spain."

Spain? He must mean Toledo then; nowhere else in the known world creates better blades; or, if they do - I am not aware of such a place. As though in anticipation of my asking, he retrieves one of the swords again and draws it; but this time reverses it so that the hilt is facing me, "Take it."

Intrigued, I do so. The sword is surprisingly light for its length - for it is longer than most blades that would be worn at court. Now that I have it in my hand, I can see the expert work upon it - this sword has been made with folding techniques, rather than beaten flat from a single piece of steel. Whoever made it knew the properties of the metal intimately, and has ensured that any impurities have been utterly removed. The hilt is bound with black leather for comfort, and that black Raven stands proud at the point where the blade emerges. There is, however, no guard; the handle stops and the blade begins seamlessly. How can something like this not be impossibly brittle? Surely it would shatter upon contact with anything it hit; yet it clearly has not.

Suddenly Cromwell rises, all business again, "Come, Richard. To the tiltyard." He reaches for the sword, and I hand it back, bemused. What now?

We emerge into the grey light of early morning, striding across the grass and sawdust that only yesterday saw the King thundering on horseback down the lists with a lance in hand. There is, naturally, not a soul present at this time of the morning. The servants that would be up at this hour are inside, while the Palace guards would have no interest in the park.

"There is no real need for a Second to fight," Cromwell explains as we head to some butts at the far end of the yard, "but it can be useful, so I should like to see what you can do."

I stare at him, startled and unnerved; I have no talent for weapons, and now I am being expected to show this to someone who is already handling a bow with practised ease, having fetched it from a rack, bent and strung it. I feel compelled to stop him from making me look a complete fool, "I cannot shoot, Mr Cromwell."

"My name is Thomas." He reminds me, gravely, "If we are to fight and possibly die together, it seems most inconvenient to use so many syllables. Now, do you say you cannot shoot because you have tried and failed, or because you have not been taught to do so?"

"My father was more interested in pistols." I admit, "I have not attempted to use a bow since I was a child."

Nodding, Cromwell hands me the bow - but no arrow. Instead, he asks me to take up my stance, and spends several minutes correcting my posture, aim and position; before asking me to stand at ease, then take up the stance again. I am obliged to do this several times before he is apparently satisfied. It is only then that he bids me to draw, and once more corrects my posture until he is content. Given my apparent failures so far, I am most reluctant to accept the arrow that he hands me. Keeping my movements slow and deliberate, I nock the arrow, raise the bow and draw, then release.

Rather than fly to the butt, the arrow merely leaps upwards as the string frees itself from the notch, then drops to the grass. I stare at it, accusingly, then turn to Cromwell, "Perhaps a crossbow might be safer?"

He shakes his head, then stoops to retrieve the arrow, "Try again. I did not expect you to succeed at the first attempt. I didn't; nor did any other that I trained with. Those who shoot well might make the feat seem simple, but it's only practice that creates such simplicity."

Glaring at the arrow, as though my eyes might persuade it to co-operate, I re-nock it and resume my stance. This time I am more successful. At least, the arrow does manage to leave the bow, but it is low, and crashes into one of the wooden struts of the butt - and bounces onto the ground.

Rather than comment, Cromwell fetches another arrow, and I try again. And again. My aim is appalling, and it is soon clear to us both that I would be as likely to hit friend as foe. My hope for heroism lies in tatters alongside my dignity, and I hand the bow back. Looking slightly rueful at embarrassing me so, he takes the last arrow, nocks it and fires it straight into the centre of the butt.

"I officially hate you." I grunt. To my surprise, he laughs; something I have never seen or heard him do before. One of the other reasons I so despised him was his coldness - and now even that seems to have been a smokescreen to hide behind.

"It was worth trying," he sighs, "but I need your mind more than your aim. You think quickly and intelligently, and that is of far greater value than a dullard who can shoot." He unstrings the bow, "Come, we should repair to the offices - once we have retrieved the wayward arrows. Our daylight duties call us."

Our office chambers are empty as we return; the hour still too early for the clerks. One of the servants has been by, though; the old bread has gone, and a fresh loaf, still steaming from the ovens, has replaced it, along with a pitcher of small ale, fresh cheese and even some hot chops. Cromwell must have approached the kitchen last evening, then. Just as well that there is such quantity, as I would certainly appreciate victuals despite a far less active night than his. At first he ignores the minor feast, shrugging into his simarre, and retrieving his chain of office. Fortunately the blood on his doublet does not show, and the flowing folds of the long gown will conceal the cut in the cloth, as well as its roughness.

I bite into one of the chops, still hot and juicy from its broiling, "How is that you came to be what you are?" My mouth is perhaps a little full for speech, but I am both curious, and more talkative than I would have been had we been here yesterday.

He pauses over a mug of ale, apparently thinking how to broach what must be a long winded topic in the space of time between now and the arrival of the Clerks, who are likely to arrive at any moment, "I was found, I suppose." He begins, "By another Silver Sword in the aftermath of violence. He dispatched a revenant that was about to dispatch me - and found that I have some talent for detecting the things."

"You can detect them?" I ask, intrigued, "How?"

"By smell. All dark beings exude a malodorous ichor, which most do not notice. Some few, however, are born with the facility to detect it. Fewer still can sense it to the degree that I can." He does not need to await my next question, "It's a foul reek - decaying corpses mingled with roses; but furthermore, at the point I lay eyes upon the creature that generates it, I experience a sharp pain in my head."

I wince, slightly; but refrain from further questions until he has consumed a chop and a chunk of bread. He must be far hungrier than I and it seems ill mannered to badger a man while he breaks his fast. As he sups at his ale again, he resumes, "my rescuer placed me into the care of a carefully hidden college, where students receive an education that would not be considered inappropriate for a high ranking nobleman. We must operate in elevated circles, so it is considered important to have received suitable scholarly instruction. Upon completing my education to a satisfactory standard, I was granted the Sigil of the Raven and dispatched into service."

His explanation is not as deep as it might be, but I have no opportunity to ask for more, as the first of the Clerks arrives. While it is not the first time that they have arrived to find the Master Secretary breaking his fast at his desk, they are startled to discover me with him. All know that our relations are not cordial, and the young man frowns slightly at such a strange sight. Feeling a little wicked, I wave at him cheerfully, another chop in my hand.

As the second of the Clerks arrives, he brings a summons from the King, and Cromwell departs. Doubtless upon his return he shall have instructions for us. The King's Grace never calls him unless there is some demand to be made; a demand that always results in work for us to do. It is, of course, the reason for our presence. Clearing the demolished repast together, I summon a servant to remove it as the senior clerk, Thomas Wriothesley, arrives, then return to my desk, stifling a yawn as I do so. The hours we work are long, but today shall be far longer for the lack of sleep.

Cromwell is gone for nearly two hours, but there is plenty to occupy us during that time. When he returns, he has clearly done so via his chambers, as he has changed out of his bloodstained shirt and doublet, replacing them with the far finer garments that he would normally wear - though he has not prevailed upon his manservant to shave him. While it is unlikely that the King would have noticed his disreputable state, the Lords of the Privy Chamber could hardly have missed it, as he is no more liked by they than he is - _was_ \- by me.

The matters he reports to us are mundane, routine affairs. There is nothing of concern to us other than the work with which we are already engaged, and the remainder of the morning passes with the quiet industry of quill pens scratching upon paper. By the time of the midday meal, I have lost count of the number of yawns I have attempted to quell, and I am grateful for the chance to stop - my writing has become very poor, such is my tiredness. How Cromwell can still be upright, I cannot begin to guess.

We are dismissed to dine, and depart to one of the lesser halls, speculating over the likely meal that awaits. Our exit, however, is stopped by the arrival of one of the Palace guard, his face flushed with running. He brushes past us, and skids to a stop at Cromwell's desk, "Master Secretary! The Captain asks you to come, quickly!"

Cromwell looks up at him, remarkably unconcerned in the face of the guard's excitement, "To what am I summoned in such haste?"

"It's murder, Master Secretary, murder! A body has been found!"


	6. London

The port is a noisy place: shouts, curses, the clatter of shifting cargo. No one is particularly interested in anyone else's business as the tide is due to turn; always the most desperately busy period in the life of a port if the boats are to get away on time.

With heads very thoroughly down, none pay any attention to a recently disembarked passenger, clad all in black and wrapped against the early spring coolness in a heavy cloak. If they had, then perhaps they might have noticed his wary attention to all about him, as he is looking for someone - but does not know the identity of the one he seeks.

After so many years on the Continent, it feels strange to be home; not that Thomas had considered England to be much of a home at the time he had fled his father's house and taken ship in search of adventure. How ironic, then, that in his search, he has found far more adventure than he had bargained for - and now it has brought him back to the land of his birth.

His flitting eyes notice a sudden movement, and his attention settles at once onto a small man wearing a chain of office that proclaims him to be attached to someone of some importance. He is looking about, a little nervously, until he catches sight of the tall stranger in black looking at him, and shuffles forward in such a poor show of secrecy that Thomas wonders that no one remarks upon it. Not giving the idiot the opportunity to speak and give all away, instead he raises his gauntleted right hand, revealing the embossed raven stamped onto the back. To the one for whom the gesture is meant, it would make sense - but for any one else, it should be considered an act of dismissal - albeit ill mannered.

His eyes widening, the small man nods, and turns away. Thankful that no words have been spoken, Thomas follows his guide to a waiting coach. Not his preferred method of transport, given the uncomfortable ride, though it does afford privacy - as much a luxury as the velvet upholstery of the seats within. Carefully removing his swords from his belt, he climbs aboard and settles himself. The man who has met him staring at the weapons with wide eyes, but, faced with a blank wall of black velvet from the bonnet that sits low on his guest's head, fortunately has opted not to comment.

Thomas never speaks if he can avoid it. Not now. Who, after all, is there to speak to? Silence has become his constant companion since his departure from Milan; and, other than that one day when he had wished to speak to the one against whom he had sought vengeance, most are fortunate to hear more than a few perfunctory words. He had been so talkative once; but the loss of his dearest friend seems to have robbed him of more than just companionship. It has robbed him of his voice.

_Joachim_ …even the thought of his name fills Thomas with pain. He had not been permitted to see the body - the Masters had kept him away, for the youth's head had been shattered upon the stone flags of the courtyard, and there was no hope that he might have lived. His only consolation is that the foul Alessandro failed in his attempt to secure the second pair of gauntlets - though the death of Joachim had ensured that the trial had been stopped. It was Talib who had secured them, as he had been the next closest to the goal - and still undiscovered at the time of Joachim's fall.

His eyes slightly glassy, he blinks a few times to drive the threatening tears away. Emotion shall not do - not now. Detachment is his ally, and one that he clings to with an obsessive determination. Instead, he concentrates his thoughts upon the man who is to be his Second.

All Silver Swords placed in the Royal Courts are assigned to someone with the knowledge and placement to assist them in their work. Not that he had known that when he trained - the knowledge imparted only to those who succeed in claiming swords. His plans to have travelled the continent with Joachim, righting wrongs and generally being chivalrous to all and sundry, have fallen as his dearest friend had done, and shattered just as completely - but it seems that, even had Joachim survived, their plans would have been foolery. Thomas has been assigned to a Court - the Court of Henry, eighth of that name. He has never heard of the man assigned to him - Cardinal Thomas Wolsey - though the Masters regard him with a mixture of mild admiration and withering scorn. Reputed to be intelligent, talented at his work, and as corrupt as a maggotted apple.

He knows only the most perfunctory details of the Court he is to enter. The King is relatively young, with an older bride of Spanish origin. They have but one daughter - little more than a child - but all hold hopes that there might still be sons. Like all such places, the Court is thick with intrigue, such as he has been able to glean from the rumours that trickle from the houses of the Ambassadors and envoys courtesy of loose tongued servants.

The sound of the horses pulling up rouses him from his contemplations, and he looks up to see that they have arrived in a small courtyard alongside a remarkably un-ostentatious house. Burbling greetings and general nonsense, the Cardinal's man ushers him out of the carriage, and waits while he replaces his swords. Behind him, the one small duffel that holds all he possesses in the world is being handed to a servant, who disappears into the house with it.

With no sign of his employer, Thomas follows the increasingly irritating little man into the house, only to be directed upstairs. It appears that the Cardinal has no interest in meeting him until he is less travel worn, as he is introduced to a soberly dressed manservant and advised to refresh himself - the Cardinal shall, he is told, see him in an hour.

Bowing, the servant says nothing, and seems to expect no words in return - indicating the fresh suit of clothing that has been laid out on the bed, and pointing through to another chamber where hot water awaits. Not sufficient to bathe, perhaps, but enough for basic ablutions. Thomas attempts to dismiss the man, who instead bids him to sit, and efficiently shaves three days' worth of stubble from his chin.

Finally, he finds some words, "What do they call you?" He asks.

"William Carter, sir." The servant replies, "His Eminence has assigned me to be your personal manservant."

He has never had a servant before; being from a stratum of society that normally provides them rather than employs them. Unsure how to proceed, Thomas shakes his new servant's hand, then sits down to await the Cardinal's summons.

The room is silent but for the creaks of floorboards from the room above, and soft conversation from the hall beyond. Thomas sits in a chair, practising his ability to remain still for long periods of time. Should the red-clad man seated opposite take the time to look up, he should wonder if the man is even breathing.

Instead, he is perusing a document that already looks well perused. The expression of the Cardinal is unreadable, even for one trained in such observation, and the two men seem to any who might pass by to be almost frozen in a single moment in time.

Finally, Wolsey speaks, "I am told that you are known as Raven."

Thomas nods, but does not speak aloud.

"As you are now in my house, free from prying ears and eyes, I should like to have your actual name. I prefer not to work with a false name."

"Thomas Cromwell." He advises, quietly, but adds nothing more.

Wolsey seems unconcerned at Thomas's reticence, setting the paper aside and leaning forward, his elbows resting on the desk, "You are highly commended by your Grand Master, Mr Cromwell," He advises, "I am given to understand that you acquitted yourself with the highest honours, and completed the final trials of the House in a time never seen before. Your solution to the problem set was somewhat…novel."

Thomas nods again, but does not speak; prompting Wolsey to continue, "In fact, I am informed that, in the opinion of your masters, they have not seen a student to match your talent for at least two centuries. You seem to be a distinctly remarkable individual." He stops again, looks about as though watching for spies, then continues - in Latin, "This is the reason for your assignment to this Court, Mr Cromwell. The order has expressed considerable concern at the level of infernal activity that graces these shores; even the Church has noticed that all is not well. We are an island nation - a perfect breeding ground for creatures of the dark, who could use England as a fortress from which they could overrun all of the known world. Only one with a talent such as yours could have expected to be sent here."

Thomas frowns, "Regardless of the talent the Grand Master claims to be mine, your Eminence," he advises, also in Latin, "It is not matched by experience. I have only undertaken one mission since my departure from Milan - and that was with only the tacit blessing of the Masters, as it was a mission of vengeance."

Wolsey nods, "Ah, yes…Boccaccio. I did wonder who had persuaded him to depart this life - my spies tell me that it was a most efficient dispatch, though even they knew not who had carried it out. The Grand Master saw fit to advise me, perhaps as a demonstration of your skills. None saw the assassin enter, or leave - yet Boccaccio was one of the most closely guarded priests in Florence; such was his wealth from the indulgences he sold to any who would pay for them. He was _so_ close to receiving his red hat, too." The Cardinal sighs, a little theatrically.

"He would not need one now. He has no head to rest it upon." The comment might have been taken as facetious, but Wolsey sees no amusement on the Raven's face; merely an implacable sense of justice served.

"What harm did he visit upon you?" The question is surprisingly kind - asked out of sympathy rather than bland enquiry.

Thomas remains silent for a moment, before elaborating, "He consorted with demons - sending Revenants into the house of a kindly man with whom I was lodging. But for my own rescue, I would have been amongst those slaughtered that night. A Silver Sword came upon me, and discovered my ability to sense ichor."

Wolsey nods, then sits back again, "You shall work in my household as a legal clerk. A man of your station and education would expect to set up as a Lawyer, so that is what you shall do. You shall spend your days on matters pertaining to the application of the law. At night, however, whenever you are required to do so, you shall hunt and destroy dark creatures as we discover them."

"Yes, Eminence."

Rising from his chair, Wolsey beckons, and Thomas follows him to the wall of the chamber. Again, pausing to ensure they are not observed, the Cardinal reaches up to a small decorative scroll on the panelling, eases it out and then turns it carefully to the left. A slight click, and, a short distance to the right, a hanging drifts back and forth slightly, as though disturbed by a breeze. Without speaking, Wolsey draws the curtain back to reveal a small entrance way that opens onto a staircase leading down into the ground. Ushering Thomas through, Wolsey pauses only to light a small stub of candle, before indicating that they should descend.

The room at the bottom is too dark to see in much detail, so Thomas waits while Wolsey fumbles with a lantern. Then, as the light grows, he speaks his first truly unprompted words in longer than he can remember, "Jesu…"

The chamber stretches off into the darkness - racks and shelves lined with all manner of objects, books, scrolls and papers. Nearby, a large, glass fronted cupboard stands against the wall, containing a selection of bottles, flasks and casks of items that inquisitors, no doubt, would be most disturbed to find. How has a Cardinal accumulated such a collection?

"I have been aware of the dangers facing this isle for almost as long as you have lived, Mr Cromwell." Wolsey advises, "Prior to my ordination, I was already learning all that I needed in order to act as the Second to a Silver Sword - and none before me had been granted such learning. Few in the Church know of your kind - and those that do are sworn to secrecy. Even his Holiness is unaware of your activities. It has always been considered best to avoid entanglements with those highest placed in the Papal palaces - for I understand that not all Silver Swords are of our faith."

Thomas remembers Talib, and nods, "The other who graduated with me was a Saracen." He chooses not to use the word _heathen_.

Wolsey spends much of the morning guiding Thomas through the enormous collection, knowing full well that such a short tour shall be utterly insufficient, "Knowledge shall come with time, Mr Cromwell. I expect us to be working together for a long time to come. Much of my work ingratiating myself within the Court and the Church has been in anticipation of this moment. My position at Court is the reason for my being assigned to you as your Second. Not another living soul in England knows of your true purpose, or of my role in supporting it."

Returning to a large reading desk that stands at the head of the shelving, Wolsey reaches into a pouch at his waist and pulls something out, "As your true work requires anonymity, no signature should ever be used on anything you commit to paper in your pursuit of it. Should you need to leave a mark, use this signet ring - the engraved Raven is your sigil, and it should be the only means you have of identifying yourself; as only I shall know its meaning."

Nodding, Thomas takes the ring, and carefully sets it on his right hand. It is official, then. Now he is truly to work.

* * *

Exhaling deeply, Cardinal Wolsey sits back from the papers that he has spent most of the morning wading through. Powerful though he is, and thoroughly enriched as a result, it is the papers that give him the most interest - and the most trouble.

He looks up at the sound of a discreet knock on the door, "Come."

The door opens to admit Thomas, who is sporting a magnificent looking black eye; presumably acquired the previous night. Looking back down at his papers, Wolsey switches his language to Latin again, "I assume from your appearance that you traced the Ravener."

"I did, Eminence." As always, he keeps his words to a minimum. Sighing, Wolsey regards his unorthodox employee with a mixture of admiration and sympathy. They have been at work now for some years, and in that time Thomas Cromwell has hardened from a callow, inexperienced beginner at both of his trades to a capable, quick witted warrior in both law and fighting. He has also, perhaps less fortunately, found a wife. Unfortunate not because of the distraction - indeed, for the time they were together he saw his charge become an altogether more talkative and open individual; giving him the chance to see the flashes of the youth that had once been.

But then there had been an outbreak of sweating sickness - a legacy of the invasion by Harri Tudur and his French mercenaries - and it had, in the space of a few days, robbed him of wife and two daughters. It had, thanks be to God, spared his son - but the loss has left Thomas even more silent and guarded than he had been when he first arrived. It is clear that he has decided that the risk of loving others is too great to be taken any longer, and has closed the shutters down tight. The only person left in the world that matters to him now is Gregory - and such is his fear of losing the boy that he has not hesitated to lodge him with a kindly family in the countryside. Such an arrangement is perfectly normal - but Wolsey is not blind to the sadness that he can see in Thomas's eyes whenever he receives a letter from the family keeping him informed of Gregory's progress.

"Take a seat." He switches back to English, as he is intending to discuss Thomas's daytime work, "I am sure you are aware that there was a spy in our midst?"

Thomas nods, a little uncomfortably; Richard Pace - one of the King's most trusted servants is now lodged in the Tower, accused of being the blab who had alerted the French to the King's decision to switch his allegiance to Spain. He is no fool - even if he opts to see and say nothing. Pace is not the spy - and the knowledge that someone as capable and, well, _innocent_ , as Pace could be so suddenly abandoned unnerves him more than a little. His swords - and all that they imply - protect him to a degree denied the others who work for the Cardinal, and he trusts Wolsey far more than most would. The thought, however, that the ground could be so suddenly and brutally shifted from under the feet of a loyal servant is not pleasant.

If Wolsey has noticed his discomfort, he gives no sign, "It's my intention to recommend you to step into his position as Secretary to the King. Your work has been admirable in all respects, but I feel that it is time to make your services available more directly to the Court." Bland though the words are - there is no mistaking their second meaning: Wolsey wants him to start patrolling the palaces, and the only way to be able to do that is to reside within them.

"Thank you, Eminence."

Wolsey nods, then hands over a large packet, "Study these documents well, Thomas. You will need to commit the information they contain to memory as soon as you can. With that in mind, you are excused your duties for the next two days." He knows that shall be all that his remarkably intelligent protege shall require. Returning to his papers, he dismisses Thomas with a wave of his hand.

Retiring to his chambers, Thomas examines his prize and finds sets of maps, drawings and plans; Hampton Court, the Palace of Placentia, Westminster, Whitehall - even Eltham. Not as good, perhaps, as actual exploration - but it's a start. His mind has been trained well to accept such a task as this, and he settles to it with a will; so much so that he does not emerge to dine with the household, and even the food that William brings to him is left ignored at his elbow. Even as the rest of the house retire for the night, he remains at his desk, absorbed in the papers, until he finally drops off over them, and William has to wake him and persuade him to his bed.

By the end of those two days, however, he has - as asked - stored away those vital guides in his memory. Even as Wolsey tests him, asking him how he would get from the King's Privy Chamber to the Kitchens at Whitehall, or from the Watching Chamber to the Mews at Hampton Court, the Cardinal never ceases to wonder at the sheer strength of logic in Thomas's mind. Even if he were not a Silver Sword, there shall be a glorious career for him in the Court. Henry would be a fool to let someone so talented go to waste.

"Our timing is not too soon, Mr Cromwell," He advises, that same afternoon, as they walk in the small gardens that back onto Grant's Place, "I have it on very good authority that a Revenant has been seen stalking the courts at Whitehall. I aim to install you in your new post without delay. You shall be assigned a private chamber within the Palace, as your duties demand that you are available at the pleasure of the King's Grace. From this day on, you shall no longer reside at Grant's Place, so William shall act as a courier between us. Our communications must, at all times, be in Latin; as he can read English well and I have no wish to implicate him in our activities."

"Yes, Eminence." Despite the opportunity being offered him, Thomas does not look happy - but then, his loyalty lies to his Second, not to a highly elevated Monarch who would regard him as little more than a useful object for bringing about his royal will. While his work is about to become more illustrious, it shall be in exchange for a reduction in the respect that he is used to from the Cardinal. Henry rarely shows respect to anyone at all - even his fellow Kings, and a lowly commoner cannot expect much more than the bare minimum of courtesy. If even that.

Wolsey turns to him, resting his hands on Thomas's arms, "I would not ask this of you if it were not absolutely necessary," he says, "the threat is growing worse, and I fear that darkness is interfering with the progress of the Queen's pregnancies. I have no idea how that is being achieved, but what darkness there is must be investigated and stopped. Only you can do that. The King is becoming convinced that her previous marriage to his late brother is the reason for her failures to produce a surviving child - male or not - and it is affecting his love for her. I am convinced she is not to blame - but I am quite sure that it shall not be long before I am asked to find some means of removing her so that he may secure a male heir from another's womb. Such is the way of Kings, but nonetheless, should it come to pass, I shall be thoroughly engaged with that - and of little use to you if you are not installed in the Household of the King."

Smiling at his silent Raven, Wolsey returns to the house. Watching him go, Thomas sighs inwardly. He has found a place for himself here; despite the loss of Elizabeth and the girls, he has managed to find some degree of contentment with his life at Grant's Place. It is a way of life for a Silver Sword, he knows - but still it grates. Now he must begin all over again.


	7. Richard's First Blood

A crowd has gathered by the time we arrive at the kitchens, set away from the main palace for fear of fire. Below, in the culvert from which the kitchen effluent drains, lies a sodden body. No one has yet seen fit to clamber down into the drain - and I would not wish to be the one chosen to do so given the sludgy mess of refuse and scum-flecked water it contains. Cromwell, it appears, has no such qualms. Pausing only to shrug back out of his simarre, which he hands to one of the guards, he hops neatly down into the mess, unconcerned at the splatters of unmentionable substances that now adorn his hose and shoes.

He crouches over the corpse, looking over it with slow care. Now and again, he pauses, bends lower as though examining something, then continues his perusal. At length he stands again, and looks up at us, "The death was not accidental." He announces, gravely, "There are signs of torment. Someone took great pains to ensure that his last hours were deeply unpleasant."

There is an uncomfortable murmuring amongst the gathered watchers, but Cromwell catches the eye of the Captain, and nods his head to the side, sharply. There is an order in that gesture, and the Captain immediately sets about dispersing the vultures, who head off with much grumbling and more than a few backward glances. Without additional instruction, the Captain sets two guards at either end of the passage, to keep people away, before coming back to the edge of the culvert and holding out a gloved hand to assist Cromwell back out again.

"How did he die, Master Secretary?" He asks, his expression suggesting he is not entirely certain he wishes to hear the answer.

"His blood was drained, I think." Cromwell says, "He seems to have little left in him - and there was a small incision in his throat with dried remains. From the direction in which they flowed, it would appear that he was hung by his ankles and the blood drained out of him." He sounds utterly businesslike - completely detached, and the Captain shudders at his calm description of such horror. Ignoring this, he continues, "Retrieve the corpse and summon the physician to examine him. I am not qualified to diagnose post mortem. Advise me when that has been done - I shall be in the office chambers." Still absolutely without emotion, he extends a hand to the guard still holding his simarre, takes it, and leaves, beckoning for me to follow.

As I trot after him, I begin to wonder if that moment last night when I pledged myself to his service had been nothing more than a dream. This is the man that I loathe - the ruthless, calculating individual that seems to show no real emotion in his decisions, and that sense of vulnerability is gone. No sooner have we passed out of sight of the guards, however, than he pulls up, sighs and leans back against the wall of the passageway, rubbing at his eyes.

"The death might have looked like the work of a depraved human," he says, after a considerable pause, "but the odour of ichor was upon him - such as was not masked by the reek of refuse. His murderer was most definitely _not_ a human being." He looks at me, his eyes suddenly sad, "Human or not, whatever it was, that boy was put through hideous torments, and I am damned if I will not avenge him for that."

Without another word, he pushes himself away from the wall, and we resume our journey back to the offices. For the second time, however, we stop at his private chambers, as his shoes are not fit to be worn, nor his nether hose. It does not take him long to change, though William, his patient manservant, offers me a nip of sack while I wait. After what I have seen this day, I am happy to accept it.

"What creature do you consider to be responsible for this?" I ask him, keeping my voice low as we pass a group of gossiping servants who scatter at the sight of a Chain of Office, "I recall you telling me last night that the number of creatures of infernal nature was increasing. Do you consider this incident to be evidence to confirm your fears?"

We stop at the door of the offices, and he sets his arm across the doorway to prevent entry, "I do." He admits, "But I lack the resources to investigate this matter further. The information I require is on the other side of London. We shall have to leave the Palace to secure an explanation." He does not look happy at this; to be seen to leave Court at this time would reflect badly on him - particularly with such a matter unresolved; and I tell him as much.

Oddly, he smiles, "Ah, Mr Rich," he says, almost impishly, which makes me distinctly nervous, "I do not intend to be _seen_ to leave the court. Absent I may be, but none shall see me leave, or see me return. My only hope is that you are better at stealth than you are at archery." He returns my glare, then - even more unnervingly - winks at me, before opening the door of the offices and ushering me inside.

Wriothesley looks most relieved at our arrival, "Master Secretary, the King is asking for you - he seems quite insistent that you attend him immediately."

We exchange a glance, bemused at this - surely the King has not been informed of something so mundane as a dead body, and, if he has, why would he bother himself with such a thing? Without a word, Cromwell turns on his heel and is gone. With no reason to remain idle, we return to our desks - until, after an hour, he returns, looking a little shocked.

"What is it, Master Secretary?" Wriothesley asks, before I can open my mouth, "Are you well?"

"Do not concern yourself, Thomas," He reassures, quite calmly, "The King's Grace required me to assume a new task. Since Sir Thomas More has taken up his residence in the Tower, we have had no Lord Chancellor. He wished to rectify that."

I cannot help myself, "He asked _you_?" It takes all my self control to avoid asking him how that can possibly make his task easier. I am the only person in the room who knows of his wider activities, and I cannot help but wonder how he can find any excuse to leave the Palace now. Clearly misinterpreting my incredulity - and with good reason, I must admit - Wriothesley looks at me askance.

Cromwell sighs, "I fear he did. And, as well you know, what he wants, he must have. I am the new Lord Chancellor." He pauses, "In spite of the circumstances, given that it is unlikely that we shall be able to make progress on our investigation for the next few days, I have sought - and been granted - leave from Court, partly to secure more appropriate attire for a man of my new station, partly to make various arrangements for the future conduct of Government which shall require me to visit the main Offices. I shall depart at first light tomorrow, and undertake a few governance matters of a legal bent - in which case, Mr Rich, I shall require your assistance."

* * *

 Such is His Majesty's keenness for his new Lord Chancellor be prepared to undertake his duties that we are granted a barge to ferry us down the river back to the City. As the journey shall take most of the day, he has waited until the morning to depart, albeit rather earlier than the oarsmen would have liked. Or I, for that matter.

"I have no wish to be witnessed leaving aboard a vessel of this state," he advises confidentially as we seat ourselves within the small, enclosed cabin to the rear of the barge, "I am disliked enough as it is. At least we shall not have to endure a day in the saddle; that is some compensation." Leaning forward, he pulls the doors closed, sealing us off from the oarsmen beyond.

"Where are we to go?" I ask, unsure why Cromwell would need to return to Town to secure suitable garments for himself given that he could just as easily prevail upon the seamstresses in the Palace to perform the service - though a visit to the main offices at Whitehall seems more plausible, for we are frequently not stationed within them. The primary Chambers might well be at Whitehall, but the functions of Government follow the King as much as the Court does, and accumulates as much additional paper as the middens accumulate nightsoil, so we move from Palace to Palace with the aid of Wriothesley and a small entourage of youths to undertake the tedious work of copying, proofing and filing. The King must have been in a singularly good temper to have agreed to Cromwell's request so easily; more so to have provided such a handsome mode of transport.

"To Shoreditch." Cromwell advises, "A house that I was left by the Cardinal by the name of Grant's Place which, while in close proximity, is entirely separate from my home, as its contents could put my head in a noose, or bind me to a stake. I have already called in a favour with one of the masters of the Wardrobe at Whitehall, and appropriate attire for my new Station will be ready for me when we arrive, while the need to attend the main offices was merely a ruse, for the work could just as easily be undertaken here. My main concern is to provide you with access to the information with which I expect you to become familiar. If it were possible to transport it from Palace to Palace as we remove from one to the next, I would do so - but its usefulness is exceeded only by its size."

This intrigues me, and I sit back, watching the banks of the river glide past as the oarsmen set a steady rhythm. Cromwell seems disinclined to talk, however, and I am obliged to sit in silence for nearly an hour, with nothing to interest me but that endless parade of riverbank and the monotonous creaking of the oars. As the sun rises higher, that rhythm slows, and the change of tempo rouses him from his silent musings.

"I've asked a lot of you, Richard - particularly with so little explanation for my actions. To have discovered me two nights ago must have been a great shock."

I turn to him, "Perhaps - but I cannot say for certain that you will not come to regret your offer. I am, after all, unsure as to whether you regard me with the same degree of animosity with which I have, until recently, regarded you."

"Until recently?" an eyebrow lifts, sardonically. I pause, wondering how to explain that strange flash of sympathy that prompted me to agree to assist him. I still have little liking for him as a man - his coldness when dealing with the Captain of the Guard, not to mention the calm, ruthless manner that he seems to adopt in all that he does about the court has left me with a poor impression of him that is only now beginning to be chipped away. That moment when his true feelings emerged - that heavy weight of solitude - had shown as a chink in his armour; for armour it must be. He gives nothing away to anyone, man or woman, Servant or Ruler. Except for that one brief moment when a crack appeared and I saw something of the man beneath.

He doesn't expect me to elaborate, and instead, explains himself a little more, "My work requires me to be absolutely resolute in all that I do. I cannot afford regrets, or to fear making false moves. My life depends upon such single-mindedness. I have but two reasons to live. One is my work, the other is my son - for, my extended family aside, he is all that remains on earth of any soul that I have ever loved. All others have been lost to me, so I find it better to love no one other than he."

My eyes widen, startled that Cromwell is speaking to me of such things. If he had opened up his trust to me that night in the offices, now he is baring his soul to a degree I am not entirely sure I want him to. He smiles then, a little bitterly, "Forgive me, Richard - you do not deserve to listen to such maudlin conversation."

Again, I feel that strange sympathy, which surprised me so when it first emerged, "If it is better for me to know such things, then perhaps I should. I am not sure what I can offer you in aid - but whatever I can give, I will."

Rather than reply, he reaches under the bench for a large satchel from which he produces an earthenware jar of rough cider, followed by bread and cheese. I am embarrassed at my failure to think of such practical matters, but there is enough to share until the oarsmen pull over to rest at the river's edge where a small inn awaits their custom.

Evening is drawing in as we pull in at the Water Gate of the Tower, and transfer to horseback for the ride north through the murky streets to Shoreditch. By the time we are through the gates into the yard, darkness has fallen, and I am relieved to have found somewhere to rest that does not sway. As we are admitted, a youth's voice calls out, and suddenly, for the first time, I see Cromwell's face show true emotion, as he smiles joyfully at the sight of his son.

"What are you doing here, Gregory?" He seems surprised to see the boy, who is normally boarded with another family - as most children of the well-to-do would be, "Are your lessons bothersome? Why are you not at home?"

"No Father," Gregory laughs, "I am here to visit Goodwife Dawson - I have outgrown my boots again, and she has promised to secure me a pair from a bootmaker in Smithfield so I came here rather than home. Why are you here?"

I feel rather an intruder in this touching reunion; but rather than leave me to stand and watch, Cromwell turns and begins the introductions, "Gregory, this is Mr Rich - a friend of mine. He is here to see the Library." Without requiring further prompt, the boy steps forward and shakes my hand politely. He is startlingly like his father in looks - though his eyes appear different; perhaps a gift from his mother, whom I shall not meet; we all know that Cromwell is a widower.

"Welcome to Grant's Place, Mr Rich," He says, courteously, then turns to his father, "Goodwife Dawson said that supper would be ready soon, I am sure there will be enough for us all. Would you like me to ask her?"

"That would be most kind - and wise, I think. Goodwife Dawson does not like to be surprised." He smiles, and watches fondly as the youth trots away. There is, however, an edge about his expression as he does so, a sense of very real fear that surprises me; then I remember his comment on the barge: this boy is all that he has left in the world, and all that matters is to protect him. With the unpleasantness at court, no wonder he is fearful, or that he is so determined to keep his secret safe. As though aware of my scrutiny, he shakes himself slightly, then starts to remove his heavy cloak, handing it to a servant who has emerged from a nearby chamber, and urging me to do the same. In that moment, the fear has gone, and I am looking at a cheerful host who is ushering me through to dine.

Margaret Dawson turns out to be an ample bosomed woman of later middle years with a kindly expression and an almost instinctive need to mother any living soul in her care. After supper, she busies herself preparing accommodation for me, while Cromwell and I seat ourselves before the fire in a private chamber, supping mulled wine and gazing at the dancing flames. I consider conversation, but it soon becomes clear that I shall get no answer, as he has set his wine aside and is drowsing in the firelight.

The strangeness of my surroundings, and the circumstances in which I find myself, however, ensure that sleep eludes me. The chamber in which I rest is separated from Cromwell's only by a thin wall of wattle, and I am sure I can hear him breathing deeply on the other side - no surprise given that he has slept so little in the last two days. This, too, does little to pull me from my wakefulness.

I have no idea of the time when I hear it - a faint groan disturbs me; there is an edge of horror in the sound, as though the one who uttered it is hideously afraid. Rigid, I wait in hope that I have imagined it, but no, another - not quite so loud or awful - then the sound of quickened breathing. I realise then that the sound is coming from the other side of the wattle.

For a moment, I dare not move. Is something in there with Cromwell? Something that is attacking him? I know so little about this new world in which I find myself - can it be possible that something could come upon him undetected? Another groan, louder this time, almost distressed, and I force myself to get up.

Each step is an effort; my every instinct screaming at me to scramble back into the bed and pull the covers over my head; but I keep going, and finally edge open the door to the bedchamber, dreading what I might find beyond.

There is nothing - not that I can see, at least, but a shape moves awkwardly under the covers on the bed; and then I realise that there is no external threat. The only demon that is chasing Cromwell is doing so in his dreams - for it is clear that he is in the toils of a nightmare. Embarrassed to see it, and unsure what else to do, I hurry to the bed and attempt to wake him, grasping his shoulders and shaking him rather harder than perhaps I should.

Then, finally, his eyes fly open, wide as saucers, his expression one of such horror that I cannot imagine what has been hounding him through the halls of sleep. He breathes harshly, as much as he did after he had set aside the wad of muslin last night, and it is clear that he is not entirely aware of his surroundings. For a moment, I fear that he might assault me, and I hastily attempt to reassure him.

"Easy, Thomas," I have never used his Christian name before, so that alone might startle him back to his right mind, "You are in your bedchamber. All is well."

At first, it appears to have no effect, and he continues to stare at me as though I might grow hideous teeth and rip into his face. Rather than speak again, I keep a tight grip of his shoulders. At least then he cannot strike out at me. At last, he recalls where he is, and sinks back onto the pillows, closing his eyes in something that may be relief, or embarrassment. Possibly both. As my own feelings are not dissimilar, I am able to sympathise.

Eventually, he speaks, "I'm sorry, Richard. You should not have had to deal with that."

I shrug, "It is of no moment; I, too have endured evil dreams." I am not lying - who has not? "Perhaps it is forward of me to say so, but, given the nature of your work, I am not overly surprised."

He looks up at me in the dim light, and I realise that there is a dampness about his eyes. The incident that disturbed his sleep must be deeply painful, then. I would prefer not to ask, but instead of dismissing me, he sits up, and I realise that I am to be told anyway.

"You may recall that I spoke to you of my rescue from a demon by the man who discovered what I could be." He says, quietly. I nod, and he continues, "Before he did so, the man in whose house I was lodging hid me in a closet. I was forced to watch as he was killed by that creature; but before it could depart, the abilities I mentioned to you sprang upon me unexpected, and the shock of it caused me to reveal my hiding place. Before that, however, the creature, and others, had slaughtered the entire household. Even though I did not see it, I knew of it; and I have never been able to rid myself of that - or of the guilt of failing to be of any help to them."

I sit still, unable to think of anything to say. Rather than allow the silence to become any more awkward, I yawn the most welcome yawn I have ever experienced, and offer my excuses to go. Again, I am not sure whether Cromwell is anxious more for me to leave him in peace or for me to stay so that he does not have to risk that horror should it come upon him once he is back to sleep. I imagine that it is the former, and return to my room. This time, however, there is nothing to keep me awake.

As we break our fast the following morning, he says nothing of the incident, and neither do I. If nothing else, Gregory is present, and he knows nothing of his Father's secret life in the shadows - I do not need to be told that Cromwell wishes to keep it that way. By the time we have eaten, he is clearly in a better mood, and ushers his son off to a small chamber to carry on with his Latin verbs. The boy knows of the library, yes, but not what it contains. Nor do I, for that matter.

As soon as Gregory is away, Cromwell leads me into a well appointed chamber, and stops at the wall. Silently, he points to a small scroll carved into the wooden beam - one of a row of such scrolls, but the fourth one in from the left. Gripping it, he pulls it forward slightly, then turns it to the left. To our right, a hanging billows slightly, and he draws it back to reveal a secret door, with a downward stair beyond. Lighting a candle with a spill from the fireplace, he leads me through, and we descend.

The cellars are extensive - and are crammed, wall to ceiling, with shelves upon which sit codexes, scrolls, artefacts and packets of all sizes, from small slivers of pamphlets to enormous books almost half a foot thick and three feet high. Amidst them all is a ledger of truly astonishing size that sits on a large, slanted writing desk at the head of the shelves, and Cromwell sets the candle down beside it, turning to me as he does so - the flickering little flame casting shadows over his face in a most unsettling manner.

"This is Cardinal Wolsey's greatest gift to me." He advises, quietly, "Everything that he could find that we could use, even if it was listed on the Papal Index, no matter how banned, or how feared. I have some thoughts as to the identity of the creature that murdered that kitchen boy - and it will not be much more than the slightest of infernals; but I wish to be certain - and I also wish you to be introduced to that which, as my Second, shall become your domain."

If he thought that I might be intimidated by a collection of such size, he is certainly mistaken, for I am agog with wonder. Books have always been of great interest to me, and already my fingers itch to reach down and begin to work my way through such a treasure trove. A mild chuckle: Cromwell has noticed my impatience.

"All in good time, Richard," he rebukes, "We have a demon to kill first."

He beckons me over, and begins to show me the ledger, which I discover to be a remarkably well organised index. It begins with a range of outcomes - such as dismemberment, colour of skin after death, whether or not blood is present, and relates through until a likely culprit can be identified. Whoever wrote this work was truly a genius of organisation…

"If he were here," Cromwell sighs, sadly, "I have no doubt that the Cardinal would be most grateful for your admiration. He was never afraid to accept that."

I stare at the ledger. Wolsey wrote this… _Wolsey_.

Using the knowledge we have as a guide, Cromwell takes me through this remarkable diagnostic process, and eventually settles onto something he refers to as a 'Ravener'. I lean in close to the description, and read it out, "An infernal of little, or no, real power. Lives to maim and kill, no intelligence to speak of. Does not seem to understand the need for discretion. Likely to abandon corpses in places of unpleasantness, such as drains, privies or culverts. Favourite means of killing unknown - but is always chosen to be slow to increase the anguish of the victim." I shudder. Beneath this description is a sequence of letters, which must relate to some coding system to find more information amongst the assembled collection.

"It's not the first Ravener that's chosen the Court for its home," Cromwell explains, "They are easily tracked, but hard to fight, as they are fast and agile. They lack the ability to use weapons with any great facility, however. I have never yet encountered one that did not end its life on my swords." He looks quite pleased at this, "If we were to face any creature together for the first time, Richard, I would have wished it to be a Ravener. They are the simplest of demons to dispatch." Satisfied, he closes the ledger. "I wish we had more time to spend here - but we do not. It's always easier for me if the Court is located at Whitehall, or Westminster. Even Placentia is better than Hampton - but needs must. There is little more we can do today other than collect the garments that I was dispatched to retrieve. We can return to the Court on the morrow." 

* * *

 Evening is drawing in as the barge pulls to the water gate at Hampton Court. While my garb is no different from that which I wore upon departure, Cromwell has taken seriously the requirement to dress the part. His doublet is brocaded, his simarre falls to his ankles now, and is trimmed with black fur. He has yet to acquire the chain of office that was once worn by More; an irony in my view given our involvement in his demise, but there is a mildly devilish look in his eyes as we mount the steps up to the palace, "Now I am truly the Raven, am I not?" he murmurs, and I cannot suppress a mild chuckle at the joke - such as it is. He is not exactly known for his humour, after all.

Our jovial mood lasts until we enter the office Chambers, and see Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, seated at Cromwell's desk, while Wriothesley fusses about him in mild, administrative distress. At once, Cromwell's expression hardens; there is no love lost between them, that is clear to me, but the implied insult in requiring him to stand before his own desk like a schoolboy rubs raw almost visibly.

"So," Howard says, contemptuously, "To the victor, the spoils. Premature mourning, perhaps for our soon-to-be late Sir Thomas?"

"Can I be of assistance, your Grace?" Cromwell's tone is brittle, but he is too wise to offer outright offence or defiance in return.

Howard rises from the chair, "No." He advises, "The King's Grace has charged me with handling the matter of the death two days past. Clearly he has concerns at your competence given the new… _burden_ …that has been laid upon you. I would suggest you continue with your… _work_." So he has, in essence, come here for the sole purpose of being insulting; there was no need for him to announce such a matter in person. What has Cromwell done to earn such ire?

Ignoring Wriothesley, who is still flapping, Howard comes about the table, and stops, insultingly close to Cromwell, "Leave such matters to those of us who are _born_ to them." He murmurs, before sweeping out of the chamber, slapping aside one of the junior clerks as he goes. Even I hate him now, and I turn to Cromwell to make a pithy comment, only to find that he has put the entire matter aside and is seating himself at his desk as though we had entered uninterrupted. I stare at him, surprised.

"His Grace considers me to lack the competence to undertake this investigation, and orders me not to become involved," he says, leafing through papers that have accumulated in his absence, "I, naturally, have no intention of obeying such orders. We shall commence our search tonight." With that, he reaches for a quill and charges it with ink, before looking back up at me again, all business, "I assume you have work to do?"

I stutter briefly, then hurry back to my desk.

The day passes without incident, other than the arrival of a servant to deliver the altogether finer chain of office that Cromwell is now required to wear to reflect his increased status. As he has already begun to assume much of the workload dropped when More resigned his post, the change is largely to his attire only, and he dons the chain without ceremony, before resuming his work.

As the day draws to a close, and the clerks depart - even the still rather flustered Wriothesley - he clears away his papers and joins me at my desk, "A hunt should always be preceded by a goodly supper, Mr Rich, I should be most honoured if you would join me."

After the strangeness of the last two days, the formality of his words causes me to snort in amusement, but it is a matter of minutes to clear my own desk and we depart to his private Chambers, which are infinitely more well appointed than mine. His manservant, William, sees to our comfort with quiet efficiency, and oversees the serving of our supper. Plucking a leg of hare from a dish, Cromwell takes a sip of wine, and startles me by beginning his plan of action almost at once, "From experience," he advises, "I find that Raveners prefer the darker places - the servants' quarters, for choice. We should begin our search there."

I stare at him, confused as to why he should start such conversation in the presence of his manservant; but William offers no sign that he is either disturbed by the subject, or my astonishment at it, but instead sets a basket of bread on the table and offers more wine. He must also know of the secret, then.

"I should advise you to avoid engaging the creature directly," Cromwell continues, having swallowed a mouthful of meat, "as you have not encountered one before. They are highly agile and move with great speed; thus, your best strategy would be to stay out of sight on this occasion."

I nod, chewing at my own mouthful of game, I have no wish to find myself in a fight; particularly after my woeful performance at the tiltyard. Feeling distinctly nervous, I gulp down a swig of claret, and try to look as businesslike as Cromwell does. I am not sure that I succeed.

We finish the meal altogether more quickly than I should have liked, with a cupful of hippocras and some cottage cheese; though I doubt that this might keep my stomach closed if there is much blood to be spilled. With a mild apology for abandoning me, he departs into the bedchamber and is gone for some time. When he emerges, the Chancellor has been replaced by a ruffian. He has abandoned his shoes for boots, his upper hose is exchanged for a pair made from rough broadcloth and his fine simarre left behind in favour of a jerkin that encloses that same, battered doublet that he had worn two nights ago - now repaired and cleaned. He carries the two swords set across his back, to avoid noise, presumably, as he walks through the narrow passageways. As they had been locked in his cupboard in the Offices, I wonder if he has two pairs, until I realise that William must have retrieved them at some point prior - possibly even while we were away from Court.

"Leave your simarre here, Richard," he advises, "I have a cloak you can use in its place." He nods to William, who lifts a suitable garment ready to drape over my shoulders. Enclosed in black, I realise that we now both look like ruffians, and I cannot repress a slight smile at the absurdity of it all.

"Will your swords not be noticed?" I ask quietly, as he opens the door to the chambers and looks out into the darkened passageway beyond, "The King is at court - no one may bear weapons."

He shakes his head, "I do not intend to be noticed," he says, "there are means of traversing the palace that are known only to the poorest servants, most of whom are abed at this time in preparation for their duties in the morning. The Guards patrol them but rarely, and are easily avoided; there are many places to hide amongst these passages." He pushes the door to at the sound of footsteps, then turns to me, his voice down to the lowest whisper, "Once we have left this room, I shall not speak again. Follow me exactly - do as I do and question nothing. Once we have located the Ravener, should we be fortunate enough to do so this night, hide yourself as best you may - you are present to witness, not to fight."

Swallowing nervously, I nod. I wish now, more than ever, that I was safely abed - but the choice is made, and I must abide by it. Trembling a little, I follow him as he opens the door, and slips through. Six paces down the passage, he stops, then swiftly slips into a small opening that I must have passed a thousand times without noticing; how could I have missed it? But then, as it is intended for use by the lowliest of servants, I would not have paid it any mind.

Cromwell clearly knows these passages far more intimately than a man of his station ought to do; and I must trot to keep up with him as he walks with swift assurance through a darkened space lit only by sparsely spaced lanterns that cast more shadows than they banish. Every now and again, he stops, listening intently, and I must force myself to stop panting from my exertions, before he continues at the same relentless pace. Twice we are confronted with patrolling guards, but each time he seems to have a hiding place to hand, and we avoid discovery.

The Palace clock strikes eleven; we have been abroad now for two hours without success, and I am wondering how much longer this will continue when, without warning, Cromwell pulls up sharply, and I almost bump into him. He remains still - completely still - for what must be at least five minutes, breathing slowly and silently, before emerging into a small courtyard well hidden from the parts of the palace where anyone of substance might wish to be seen. There is little else in the yard but for a stack of large casks, to which he indicates I should head. As I do so, moving as quietly as I can, I realise that we have found our quarry.

I am not sure what I expected to see - perhaps some deformed little imp with bat-like wings on its back, as might appear in some old bestiary. This, however, is no imp. It is impossibly thin - skeletal, with horrid, leathery skin stretched so taut over its bones that it might split if the beast moves. In the doubtful light of the lamps, its skin appears a vile, mottled mix of deathly grey-white and brown, while its face is a noseless horror of ugliness, two long, pointed ears emerging from either side of its bald skull. Shaking with a fear that I cannot quell, I am grateful that Cromwell wants me to take no part in this fight.

Somehow, this ghastly creature has not noticed either of us; apparently intent on two young men playing a game of dice in an alcove nearby. It must be awaiting the departure of one so that it can snatch the other. Instead, however, _it_ shall be snatched - for its nemesis now stands ready in the centre of the yard, and draws one of his two swords slowly and easily, before standing ready.

I am not sure what alerts the monster to its danger - for Cromwell has said not a word. Perhaps it is the steely sound of the blades being withdrawn from the scabbards that are strapped to his back. In an instant it turns, sharply, and utters a vicious hiss that I cannot interpret - excitement? Fear? Anticipation of someone to kill? It's impossible to tell. I expect it to rush at him, but instead it leaps towards a wall and starts to scramble around the bounds of the yard, its fingers and toes clinging to the bricks. It moves with horrible swiftness, as Cromwell had warned me, and I find myself cowering closer to the ground than I should like - though the reek of sewage from a nearby garderobe is almost preferable to having my throat ripped out by the creature that is now springing from the wall directly at the man before it.

I want to shout a warning, almost instinctively, but he merely drops and rolls to the side with startling speed; coming back up to his feet again in a single movement as the ravener skids past him on the cobbles and slides into the wall. Hissing again, its clawed feet scrabbling on the ground, it skitters across the floor towards him, and he leaps over it, turning his shoulder as he does so in order to land and roll easily, then he is up again, and facing the monster once more. For a brief moment, the light catches his face - animated and alert. I think he has actually forgotten that I am there - his concentration entirely upon the beast before him - but there is something else, too: a sense of exhilaration, as though he is truly in his element.

They battle on for several minutes, each almost as agile as the other. So engrossed am I in the fight that it takes several minutes for me to notice that I am no longer alone; one of the two gaming men has slipped behind the casks to watch as well, and I utter a strangled squeak that is as embarrassing as it is quiet and high. I cannot identify the stranger, but my attention is drawn back to the fight as the beast strikes Cromwell hard in the chest and knocks him to the ground. Far from sprawling, however, he swings both legs up as though trying to fold himself in half, before kicking them both forth and springing straight back to his feet again, pushing from his shoulders in a single movement. I had no conception that such an act was possible, and my jaw drops; but it is not over. Turning sharply, he brandishes one of the swords in a flowing, almost wristy slash, and the beast's head is suddenly cleaved from its body.

We - that is, myself and my unexpected companion - stare in amazement as the creature stands frozen for a moment, before dissolving into black ash and fading away to nothing. Breathing hard, Cromwell turns to my hiding place, and I rise slowly, wondering how to explain that I am no longer alone. Looking sheepish, the new arrival rises to join me, and Cromwell sighs, "Wyatt. Why am I not surprised to find that one of the hidden gamblers was you?"

Wyatt? I turn, surprised. Now that he is in more reliable light, I recognise the youthful features of Thomas Wyatt; he is known about the court for his poetry - and I know that Cromwell is one of his patrons, as are the Boleyns. He still looks somewhat shamefaced, but his lips are twitching with amusement at being caught in an entirely expected act, "Might I ask, My Lord," he replies, cheerfully, "Why it is that you are questioning me as to my nocturnal activities when it is you that has just used a weapon on another creature while the King is at court?"

To my surprise, rather than challenge the younger man, Cromwell instead takes on a slightly martyred expression, apparently unconcerned at being discovered in the midst of a task that he had, until only two nights ago, borne entirely alone. Rather than challenge Wyatt, he instead carefully re-inserts his swords back into their respective scabbards, and jerks his head to the right - clearly an order that we follow him back to his Chambers.

"This shall be interesting, shall it not?" Wyatt grins as he follows me in Cromwell's wake.


	8. The Fall of the Cardinal

Scowling to himself, Thomas slices off a cheek of apple with a rather more vicious slash than he intends, causing the knife to leave a slight dent in the pewter plate. The cause of his ire - a short missive delivered to him by a retainer - sits nearby, only just having avoided being crumpled up and flung in the nearby fire.

_The King's Grace has decided to cancel his meeting with the French Ambassador, and will instead be engaged elsewhere this night. Advise Ambassador Castillon that his presence is no longer required - I leave it to you to think up a suitable excuse._

_TB._

It has taken him nearly a week to pin Castillon down to that meeting; after much insistence by Henry - and he has had far more important things to be doing throughout that time, as there has been another Revenant sighted about the precincts of the palace. While he is accustomed to the mercurial whims of the King, it is almost certain that his hard work has been undermined not by Royal whimsy, but instead something more interesting offered in front of his nose. Probably curvaceous and female.

Thomas Bloody Boleyn - a man whose ability covers for his almost naked ambition for his own advancement. He wants as much as he can get, and doesn't care who he stamps on, or forces aside, in his aim for the highest degree of honour and wealth - oh yes, _wealth_ \- that can be accumulated. For a moment, Thomas is tempted to turn and spit in the fire - a rather stupid and childish gesture to ward off evil that he picked up somewhere - but instead re-reads the paper with a sigh before this time crumpling it up again and actually hurling it into the flames. Best go find the French Ambassador, then - at only an hour's notice.

The rise of the Boleyn family at court is not an unusual occurrence - political ascendancy is easy enough to achieve with the right connections and understanding of the King's ways. Boleyn is sharp, shrewd and intelligent. Had he been less fixated on gaining advancement for himself, Thomas is sure that they could have worked well together. Perhaps even forged a degree of friendship - though his own background is far too low for a man who has come from well-to-do beginnings in commerce and diplomacy.

Emerging from the Private chambers of the French Ambassador with an undeserved flea in his ear for leaving it so late to advise of the King's change of plan, Thomas decides to give up for the night. The last revenant lurking at court has been safely dispatched, and William has brought no new missives from the Cardinal to supplement his own investigations; instead he shall retire to his own Chambers and read the treatise on demonology that he has been intending to get to for nearly a month.

"Cromwell!" The voice shouts across the court with irksome volume, and he stops, groaning inwardly. What does Boleyn want _now_? Forcing himself to assume an expression of polite enquiry, he turns to find the King's Comptroller marching toward him with furious haste, "I trust you spoke to the French Ambassador?"

"I did, My Lord," he advises blandly, "We have agreed to arrange a new time."

"Come with me. There's something I wish you to arrange for me." Without waiting for an answer, Boleyn marches off down a narrow passageway through to the courts where his own apartments are located, obliging Thomas to hurry after him.

Despite Thomas's officially being the King's Secretary; for some reason, Boleyn has taken this to mean that, when not at the King's beck and call, Thomas should be at _his_ beck and call. Being as lowly as he is, and Boleyn being so much in the ascendancy, there is little he can do to complain, but it rankles extensively, as many of Boleyn's demands require him to be active late into the night - a time when he has far more urgent business to be attending to.

It had better not be Anne again. Much as he has no dislike for the sharp witted, intelligent young woman that Boleyn seems to have managed to bring into the world despite being so tiresome himself, being expected to act as a general _factotum_ in relation to Boleyn's determined quest to thrust her at the King in hopes of her winning him yet more glory has left him feeling like a vile conspirator against the Queen. One of his greatest failures in all the time he has been placed at the Court is his inability to work out why each pregnancy she has begun has ended in miscarriage or stillbirth. He can sense the presence of ichor about her - something dark is at work; but he has never managed to find the source. Now, it seems, there is no love left in the heart of the King for someone who cannot furnish him with the male heir he craves - and Boleyn has high hopes that he might find himself a royal Grandparent thanks to one or other of his two daughters.

It is not Anne, fortunately - or perhaps not, as the King is engaged in yet another fruitless attempt to persuade her into his bed; hence the cancellation of his meeting. Instead, Boleyn sits him down alongside a fragrant, applewood fire, before sitting opposite him and leaning forward, conspiratorially, "You're the Cardinal's man, are you not?"

Thomas looks up from the fire, startled at the question, "Why do you ask?" It seems a more polite way of saying _what business is it of yours?_

"You must know that he is a flickering candle on the verge of guttering and going out. I am surprised that you tie your loyalty to him so strongly. You are, after all, more interested in the reformed faith, aren't you?"

He sits still; very still. Of all the misdemeanours that Boleyn can hold over his head - this is the one that could potentially send him to the stake. Wolsey's patronage has always provided excellent cover for his religious views, as the Cardinal is resolutely uninterested in how his Raven chooses to converse with God. He hopes that his sudden nervousness isn't showing on his face, and thinks through his answer with great care, "He is my patron. But for him I would still be a lawyer with little hope of advancement. I owe him my career - in some ways, my life. Why would I not tie my loyalty to him?"

Boleyn snorts with amusement, "There is a new force in the court now - and it is time to sweep away the dead wood. I would advise you to ensure you know to whom you should be loyal when that time comes. I have it on very good authority that the King's Grace shall soon be seeking a means of divesting himself of his failed first wife in order to find one that will bear him sons; and, should he choose… _correctly_ …then there is much to be gained - for all who are involved when he does."

Dear God…he means Anne. Is he truly so indifferent to his daughter's wishes and dreams that he would bank his entire future upon the King's infatuation with her? What if he tires of her? What if she is not willing to be involved with the King? She is, of course, a woman of noble birth and thus not the mistress of her fate in the marriage market; but still…

Boleyn seems indifferent to his fears, instead, he comes to the point, "Therefore, with this in mind, I expect you to transfer your loyalty to _me_. I am the new power at Court now, and Wolsey shall be swept aside. How quickly that happens depends largely upon you - as you are close to him and know his movements and operations. The time has come to remove that corrupt old churchman and bring new blood to the Council. From tomorrow, you shall report to me, and your reports to him shall consist entirely of that which I provide for you to send. After all, it would be such a pity for one so talented to be burned for such a foolish heresy, would it not?"

Despite himself, Thomas cannot repress a sense of cold horror. While he is entirely used to deviousness, being entirely devious himself when the situation demands, and just as ruthless; he had never expected to be so wholly subjected to open blackmail. He is not in a position to refuse - and they both know it. Forcing himself to bite down an angry objection, instead, he raises his head and looks directly at Boleyn, arranging his features as best he can into a mild, almost mercenary, smile, "As you wish, My Lord."

Smirking nastily, Boleyn takes a cup of wine and raises it in a grim salute.

Needless to say, a letter under the sigil of the Raven has been smuggled out by William this morning. Unusually, he has used not only Latin, but a carefully created cipher to ensure that none can read the words it contains. With Boleyn clearly convinced he has a hold over the King's Secretary, the need to warn the Cardinal - and, if he is to be truly honest, to beg for help - is urgent.

He is, however, surprised by the answer - ordering him to comply entirely with Boleyn's demands, no matter how distasteful. As expected, the King has now decided enough is enough. He wants sons - and he wants a woman who can give him sons. Katherine is not that woman; she was his brother's widow and is that not forbidden? Papal dispensation or no papal dispensation, Henry wants out of his marriage, and it is Wolsey's job to make it happen. Therefore, he cannot offer any help - and the only advice he can give is to do all that Boleyn requires - if only to protect himself. A Silver Sword is no use if he is ashes.

If only Pope Clement had not been captured by the Holy Roman Emperor - Katherine's Nephew. Under the thumb of someone who can, and _will_ defend the Queen's rights, the Holy Father's captivity has left Wolsey hopelessly unable to act with the speed and efficiency that he had intended - furthermore, with staunch opposition from John Fisher at home and his Holiness abroad, every alternative route he has tried to secure the desired annulment is being turned against him.

And, all the while, his loyal Silver Sword is obliged to act against him - pressured by Boleyn into undermining his efforts to bring about a satisfactory conclusion. The King's infatuation with Anne is now burning at such heights that, for Wolsey, failure is not an option - but Thomas has no choice but to follow the orders given to him; suggesting obliquely to the King himself that, since the Pope is now free from imprisonment, someone should be sent to petition him directly. He hated doing that - knowing full well that he is giving the King the impression that Wolsey has lost his abilities, and shall lose the battle to come. Such is his frustration at his situation that the discovery of a lurking Ravener has been a welcome distraction upon which to loose his pent up anger.

His frustration, however, is nothing in comparison to Henry's - whose passion seems to rise higher and higher with each passing hour that his will is denied - the wait lengthening from weeks, to months, to years. Having spent some considerable time in her presence himself, Thomas can understand why; Anne is vivacious, highly educated and strong willed. She knows what she wants, and is determined to secure it - but, in complete defiance of her ambitious father's wishes, has done something entirely human. She has fallen in love with her frustrated paramour.

Thomas has been trained to read emotions in people's faces, and there is no mistaking it - even as Boleyn glowers over her, giving terse instructions on what she should, or should not, do to keep the King's interest - it is there. How can her father not see it? She know exactly what she is doing - she has set her heart on Henry, and is working expertly towards the ultimate goal of becoming his lawful wife. Unlike her sister, who had happily given herself as a mistress, and had just as quickly been palmed off on some compliant courtier.

Not only that - but she holds reformist sympathies, and their discussions of such matters have proved to be deeply interesting. He is still far too sore from his widowhood to even consider entertaining any view of her other than that detached observation with which he approaches all people; but he can see how others could be charmed by her - and, in not a few cases, are. Yes; the King is absolutely smitten, and shall not rest until he can wed her. She will not allow him to have her until vows have been made, and he is most unused to such a refusal. Had she been anyone else, she would almost certainly have been banished from court by now - or worse, taken by force and _then_ banished from court. Such acts are not unknown amongst Princes. Instead, however, Henry has glowered, scowled, even tantrummed once or twice - but remains determined to keep away from her person until permitted to do so in the eyes of God.

But it seems that God's eyes are firmly set on Katherine. To her credit, she has refused to accept the jurisdiction of the Ecclesiastical Court that was effectively Wolsey's last throw of the dice. Thanks to the intransigence of John Fisher, and the interference of the Pope, it is becoming increasingly clear that no progress shall be made without that final sanction; which is not forthcoming. Finally tired of waiting, Henry has decided enough is enough, and intends to take the drastic step of breaking ties with Rome.

While that looks bad for Wolsey, which pleases Boleyn; it also does not look good for the desired annulment; and Boleyn is soon pressuring Thomas again - to find some other means to gain support to end the unwanted marriage. Despite his long service in diplomacy and commerce, Boleyn lacks his unwilling ally's connections - though he has no idea what those connections might be. The solution - theological support from European universities - is simple enough; but the King wants him, Thomas, to undertake the task.

He has not left the court at any time since Wolsey had installed him there; and to do so now concerns him a great deal. While he is not beholden to his Second - as it was the Second's job to support the Silver Sword, not the other way around - he cannot avoid a strong sense of desertion. He is not given to abandoning his post, or of so openly humiliating his mentor by using a method that conflicts with everything that Wolsey has attempted - and which has failed.

Dismissed from the Presence Chamber to get to work, he has returned to his chambers to find Boleyn waiting there. While he is not overly surprised to see his hated patron; he is, on the other hand, startled that the father has brought his daughter.

"Well?" Boleyn demands, impatient to know if Thomas's suggestion has been accepted.

Already annoyed, the sharp question irks him all the more, and instead of answering, he merely sets his file of papers aside and reaches for a flagon on the table that he hopes contained something stronger than small ale.

Swift footsteps behind him, then a firm hand grasps his arm, flinging him backwards into the panelling with startling violence, then Boleyn grabs his collar tightly, ready to twist tighter, "I _said_ ," He hisses, viciously, " _Well_?"

For the first time, his anger overcomes his discretion. Reaching up, he snatches at the hand twisting his collar, and swiftly turns about, twisting Boleyn's arm painfully and forcing the arrogant Lordling to bend over at the waist. Ignoring Boleyn's furious curses, he stays like that for a moment, before finally answering, his voice low and angry, "His Majesty has dispatched me to canvass opinions at all the major Universities of Europe, _my Lord_. I depart on the next available tide. If you had found it in yourself to ask me politely, I would have answered with all speed. You have my service - but _not_ my loyalty. I do as the King commands, and I should thank you to remember that." He maintains his grip a little longer, then finally releases it. Despite the risk, it feel surprisingly satisfying to watch Boleyn stumble forward a few paces, before straightening up and rubbing furiously at his shoulder. Fortunately, his humiliation at being so easily turned aside by a lowly commoner is sufficient to avoid his making too much of a fuss, though Anne is looking rather impressed at Thomas's rather rash act.

The two men glare at each other, until Boleyn is finally forced to turn aside by the intensity of the contempt in Thomas's angry eyes. Boleyn knows nothing of the real depths of darkness - he is nothing but a self-serving amateur. How much of this is to serve the King's desire for a son, compared to Boleyn's desire for ennoblement? He is already Lord Rochford, but this is utterly insufficient. With Anne's rise, he is hoping to go as high as he can - perhaps even gain an Earldom if he plays his daughter right.

Trying to regain his ruffled composure, Boleyn stutters briefly, then finally manages to get some words out, "Well then. Best get packing, hadn't you?" The words are laden with enmity - though Thomas does not care. The man has hated him from the off, and the feeling is entirely mutual. It is only a shared goal that holds them together - and when the time comes for them to stand against one another, it shall be interesting to see which of them shall survive.

Jerking his head roughly to the side, indicating that Anne should follow, Boleyn attempts one last glare, and sweeps out.

* * *

He has been away for several months; long uncomfortable days in the saddle and long uncomfortable nights in fleapit inns where the food was bad and the beds worse. Much as he would have preferred to travel alone, as he had done in the first days after departing Milan, he was encumbered by company; two clerks and a small platoon of the royal guard. He is - after all - on royal business.

The outcome of his journeying has, however, borne fruit. The responses are very much as expected: the northern universities have generally ruled in favour of the King, while several Italian establishments have also agreed. Spain, of course, has not; but as he had attended there only out of courtesy, knowing full well what their answer would be, he is not overly concerned. It would, at least, give Thomas Cranmer, now Archbishop of Canterbury, the ammunition he needs to finally declare the marriage null and void - for, as the Church shall not grant Henry his wish, his break with Rome has opened another way. It goes without saying that the King is pleased with his work.

Wolsey is not at court, which does not unsettle Thomas overly much - his visits have been few and far between for some time; but he has, however, been there in Thomas's absence. The evidence sits before him on a table in his private Chambers: a thick packet of papers. Intrigued by the size of the packet, he opens it, pausing as a small, sealed paper drops out onto the tablecloth. The seal bears the Cardinal's signet, but the front bears only a crudely drawn black bird. Business, then.

Setting the rest of the papers aside, Thomas seats himself before the fire, and breaks the seal. He is so accustomed by now to the cipher that he does not need to spend time working out which letter is which. It is merely another way of writing the alphabet, and a simple matter for a mind as logical as his to translate.

_My dear friend Raven,_

_By now, you will have returned from your mission abroad, and you will have noticed my absence. While I remain free, my failure to secure an annulment of the King's marriage has taken its toll, and I know that my fall from favour is imminent. As I asked you to comply with the requirements of the Boleyns, I must ask you now to devote yourself wholeheartedly to their cause, and that of others close to His Majesty. While there is no love lost between you and they, their ascendancy is your greatest hope of ensuring you remain at Court, and your presence is essential._

_You must not only do this, but you must wholly and utterly turn away from me. Loyalty to my lost cause will bring you only the loss of the employment you currently hold - and the English Court cannot afford that loss. There is a time of tribulation coming; a darkness that seeks to use England as a fortress stronghold in an infernal war that humanity cannot afford to lose. You alone stand against that, and you cannot do so from outside the walls of the Palace._

_Speak not to me again, or of me again. Do not write letters to me. I have enclosed the deeds to Grant's Place in the packet of papers - the house is yours now to use as you see fit. The Staff will continue in my employment for the time being, as to transfer them to your care would be a financial burden beyond your current resources. William, however, is pledged to your service, and will remain so._

_I must charge you with this on your honour. Your future at court depends upon it. You must abjure me, and all that I am and have done - for your continued association with me shall taint you. As it grieves me to do so, this single missive must be the last goodbye I can give to you - and I do so in the knowledge that your goodbye to me will follow it in thought if not in word._

_Know also that your act against me will not demand my forgiveness, for it is at my request - even my command. Alas, I cannot act to find another to take my place as your Second; so I must ask you to find what time you can to study the Index that I have established to assist you in searching the Library. I have no doubt that you can succeed in this, as I recall your learning the entire contents of the maps of the palaces in but two days._

_Trust my judgement, Raven. It is too late for me to save myself, and I shall not regain any love from the King's Grace. In my fall, however, I must not drag you in my wake. As I ask you to place your trust in me, know that I place my trust in you. God sent you to this Kingdom to keep it safe; and I know with all of my soul - corrupted and cankerous though it is - that He is right in all things._

_God's grace be with you, my dear Raven. Know that I love you as a father loves a son, and that you have brought me great satisfaction and pride. Farewell, and keep this Kingdom safe._

_T W._

He reads the letter three more times, trying to take in the words. That Wolsey's star was setting is undeniable. He had sensed the fall of a great Lord from the gossip alone as soon as he returned - but it had not occurred to him that it would be Wolsey despite all the evidence of the last year or more that it could be no one else.

Moving slowly, almost like a puppet, he reaches round for the packet of papers and begins to explore the contents. As promised, the deeds for Grant's Place are there - clearly made out to him - but there is a set of papers covering Wolsey's experience in managing the King's wishes and whims; something that he shall find most useful, and then…

The book isn't particularly large - but it is one of the Cardinal's most treasured possessions: a prayer book that he always carried somewhere about his person. Clearly he does not think himself likely to live for long - why else would he leave it to someone else?

Tutting to himself, William Carter bustles about the chamber. Night fell nearly an hour ago - the clock has chimed to indicate such a fact - and yet no one has thought to light the candles. The Master Secretary shall be most displeased…

He stops, his attention caught by an odd sound. Bemused, one candle in hand, he approaches the fire, and stops dead, "Master Cromwell?"

Startled, Thomas turns, the book falling from his hands into his lap. To William's astonishment, his employer's cheeks are streaked with tears - he has been crying; something so utterly unexpected that the servant cannot help but stare. Cuffing rather frantically at the watery mess, Thomas grabs the book and pulls himself together.

Wolsey has laid a task upon him, and he cannot afford to be so weak about it. There is no alternative but to draw that familiar cloak of detachment about himself: as Wolsey falls, so he must take what steps he can to weather the storm and - as ordered - attach himself to the rising stars. Hating them makes no difference - the mission is all.

If he has to face the fight to come without friends or support, then he shall.


	9. Now We are Three

We troop back to Cromwell's apartments, taking as much care in our return as we did on the way out. I feel deeply tense at our being so easily discovered; but if he feels the same, Cromwell does not show it. Instead, he ushers us into the main chamber, where William is already mulling some claret for us. I cannot help but wonder how he knows.

Setting his weapons aside, Cromwell invites us both to sit, before seating himself as well. We sit in a rather uncomfortable silence for several minutes, accompanied only by the crackling of the fire.

"My goodness," Wyatt observes, blandly, "How talkative we are tonight."

I glare at him, but any pithy response I could give is interrupted by a mild chuckle from Cromwell, "I had not thought that I should need to explain myself; but then - after two occasions in quick succession when I have found myself caught out by unexpected observers, I have little choice. I must be losing my edge to be so clumsy."

"At least you weren't dying this time. That must be some consolation." I suggest, and he looks up at me with an amused expression that I have never seen before. It seems that he is more accustomed to humour that I had realised.

"Dying?" Wyatt asks, suddenly intrigued, "How exciting - I imagine that was a most bracing experience. I'm amazed that it took someone so long to attempt to end your life - I can't imagine how many noses were put out of joint by your newest appointment. So many people would give their souls to have that kind of access to the King."

"I would let them have it, too." Cromwell admits, "Illustrious it may be, but it serves mostly to make my mission considerably harder. I suspect that the King's Grace shall not be as accommodating to my frequent need to absent myself as the Cardinal was."

That is an understatement of the highest order, and we all know it. Only Wyatt does not know exactly why, and his amusement is tinged by a mild confusion.

Cromwell looks across at me, "Do you wish to tell him, Mr Rich, or shall I?"

I sit back with a magnanimous gesture, "It is your tale to tell, Mr Cromwell, I could never do it justice. Besides, there is much that you have not had the time to tell me, so I would miss details that might be of great importance."

With no one to interrupt us, Cromwell is able to tell all, and it is not only Wyatt who listens with wrapt attention. The presence of a secret order dedicated solely to the eradication of dark forces is such a strange tale, that if it were not the man before me telling it, I should have thought that I was being gulled. He speaks quietly, sincerely; and we are both caught up in the story of a boy, trained to become a warrior, then the man sent out to fight a battle that no one else could even see, much less comprehend.

Wyatt also interrupts in astonishment at the mention of Wolsey's name, "Surely not?" he exclaims, "I could not have imagined a man of his stature capable of the feats I saw you perform this night!"

Cromwell shakes his head, though the thought of Wolsey in full battle against something like the ravener clearly amuses him as much as it amuses me, and he goes on to explain the role of the Second. As this is now my purpose, I listen intently - I still have no idea what is expected of me, and this is my opportunity to learn.

"All Silver Swords placed in the Courts of Kings are assigned a Second, Tom," he says, "Someone who is aware of their activities, and who supports their work through researching and studying texts, artefacts and signs. Until tonight, there would have been only two people in each of the great Courts who would have known of our endless battle with the dark: the Silver Sword and his Second. Now, however, in the English Court, there are three. Myself, my Second," here he pauses to look across at me, at which Wyatt's eyebrow shoots up in surprise, "and now you."

"Then I am your Third?" Wyatt grins, not entirely serious.

Again, that vaguely martyred expression crosses Cromwell's face, but this time I realise that it is something of a private joke between them, as Wyatt merely laughs. Then he looks at me, "What prompted you to offer yourself to such service then, Mr Rich?" he asks, "Surely your nose did not bleed, or your eyes fall out at the prospect of performing such a task?"

He is referring, naturally, to our previous mutual enmity - and I am not sure how to answer the question. I do not wish to give the impression that I agreed to the task out of pity, for that is not what prompted my sudden change of heart. What was it? Sympathy? A sense of burden? The realisation that the man I disliked so was not as deserving of my ire as I had thought? Even I am unsure, and I stutter a little, trying to find an explanation.

Wyatt smiles again, and turns back to Cromwell, "I see your ability to inspire men to follow your lead is as intact as ever."

Without a word, Cromwell throws one of his gauntlets at the poet, but he is smirking somewhat, and the moment passes in mild laughter. The wine has long since run out, and I realise I really should depart back to my apartment, but the conversation continues, and the sense of camaraderie that has begun to form is too inviting to abandon. Instead, I sit back to enjoy it.

* * *

The next thing I recall, William is shaking me on the shoulder, and I have a crick in my neck as I rub at my eyes in the early dawn light. Wyatt is sprawled on a chair across from me, his mouth open, and making odd, whiffling noises as he snores. Cromwell is absent, and I attempt to rearrange my shoulders into something resembling their normal setting as he reappears, dressed smartly again - though he has not bothered with his simarre or chain of office. If he is tired from last night's exertions, and the gathering that followed, it does not show. I wonder darkly how he does it, as I yawn widely, causing a painful cracking in my jaw. Before William can offer the same gentle waking that I received, Cromwell stops beside Wyatt, and sharply flicks his ear, causing him to wake with a startled grunt. I cannot suppress a grin as he scrabbles at the sides of the chair to stop himself falling to the floor.

"Up, you slug-a-bed," he orders, briskly, "I need to see what skills you can offer me."

My grin becomes a little vicious - we are returning to the tiltyard, and this time it is someone else who is to be embarrassed.

We emerge, once again, onto the grassy stretch of the tiltyard. There have been no tournaments for nearly a week, so the area is largely untended, and this time we must set up the butts ourselves. Before fetching out a bow, however, Cromwell instead selects two wooden staffs that tend to serve to for the practice of swordplay, and tosses one to Wyatt. Having no skill with a blade, I keep well back, but it is immediately clear that Wyatt knows what he is doing, and the two of them begin to spar with the casual virtuosity of those who are truly expert in their art.

Even to my hopelessly inexperienced eye, it is clear which of the two has the edge. No matter how well practised Wyatt is, he has never used a blade to battle for his life, and still largely fences rather than fights. He is absolutely unable to get in a single strike - not even within a whisker - but Cromwell regularly gets through, planting uncomfortable slaps of his staff against Wyatt's arms, jabbing him in the belly and eventually forcing the poet's staff aside entirely and bringing his own up to Wyatt's neck. Being younger, taller and stronger, the odds ought to have been in Wyatt's favour, but his lack of knowledge of real fighting has been his downfall - at least in terms of being declared the winner. Being far too good natured to chafe at being beaten, he grins cheerfully as they step apart, both rather blown by their exertions, before Cromwell takes the staff back and returns the pair to the rack from which they came.

Then, as he did with me, he selects a bow and deftly bends the wood to string it. Handing it to Wyatt, he follows it with an arrow, and indicates the butt. After my own humiliation, I hope rather desperately that Wyatt will be at least a slightly poor shot; but again, he expertly takes his stance, nocks the arrow, draws, aims and fires in a single flowing movement that fills me with admiration as much as it does with embarrassed annoyance. It appears, then, that I can offer nothing at all in terms of defence.

Compounding my sense of disappointment in myself, Wyatt proceeds to fire six more arrows with flawless accuracy, but this time Cromwell does not participate, instead retrieving the bow as he did the swords. Perhaps he has noticed my shifting embarrassment - though I hope not.

He has, however, not finished. Instead he turns to me, "Do you want to practice, Richard? It's the only way to improve." He is not making fun of me - there is an edge of kindness in that question that convinces me that he really does want me to be better with weaponry if at all possible. Even Wyatt catches it, and doesn't laugh.

Sighing, I nod and step forth to take the bow. Rather than stand to the side and watch, instead Cromwell stands behind me and talks me through each movement. As he can see what I can see, he stops me, and takes a moment to correct my aim - I am trying to point directly at the centre of the target with my arm - but instead I should be pointing the arrow, as it is slightly to the left.

Taking his advice, I shift slightly, draw again, and release. The arrow does not hit the centre of the butt, but nor does it miss entirely. For something so insignificant, I am rather embarrassed at the sense of achievement that I feel. Grinning cheerfully, Wyatt claps me on the shoulder. None of us are foolish enough to believe that I have the potential to become a crack shot - but in looking along my eyeline, Cromwell has noted the fundamental error I was making.

Rather than spoil the moment by making me shoot again and almost certainly miss, instead he takes back the bow and unstrings it. The morning is progressing, and we need to return to the offices. Wyatt, who has no specific appointment, just needs to return to the Palace. We have taken rather more time than we ought, and my ablutions are far more hasty than I should have liked before I bustle into the office chambers and leaf through some papers that one of the Clerks has left on my desk.

To my surprise, Cromwell does not appear, but Wriothesley tells me that the King has dispatched him to the Tower to try one more time to persuade Thomas More to accept his Majesty's supremacy over the Church. We all know that it will be a fruitless exercise, none more so than Cromwell himself; as, for all his virtues, More's one sticking point is his absolute devotion to the Church of Rome. Like many with a fixed, absolute belief, it made him utterly ruthless in rooting out heretics, and it blinded him to cruelty when he sent six Lutherans to the flames. Although Cromwell has never mentioned it, I have no doubt that he would have endured some uncomfortable interviews himself given his own reformist views.

I feel some discomfort now at my own role in the whole affair. It was my work as Solicitor General that brought him to this, and I know that I cannot claim to emerge from it with my hands clean. It was, I admit, until recently, another of my reasons for loathing Cromwell, as he has a similar level of culpability - though he has not left me to take the blame alone. We know, however, that what the King desires, the King must have - and he desires More's acceptance of his Supremacy. Without it, he is a traitor, and must die for it. He is fortunate that his sentence of hanging, drawing and quartering has been commuted to mere beheading. That, at least, is some slight consolation.

Despite that, it's clear to us all that Cromwell admires More, and has no wish to see him die. More, on the other hand, seems quite set on martyrdom, and none of us are particularly surprised at Cromwell's downcast expression when he returns to the offices in the mid-afternoon. It was the last throw of the dice - and there is nothing now left but to sit out the hours until the execution. He brushes past us to sit at his desk and busies himself with papers. None of us feel able to approach him, and he invites no conversation. For the rest of the day, we work in silence.

I have not slept well, and my breakfast has little appeal this morning. We all await the news that will soon come - though it will come to Cromwell first, and he must deliver it to the King. I imagine he slept no better than I.

Picking at some bread, and taking sips of the small ale, I try to frame my mind to consider the day's tasks - which are plentiful - but I cannot. Instead, my head is full of dark thoughts of the block and the axe. All men have faults - and More's was to be bigoted - but still, it is a cruel death for one whose loyalty to the King was overshadowed only by his loyalty to God; and who is the higher person in _that_ equation?

I am not sure how long I spend at the table, brooding and shredding the bread into rags, but eventually I hear a soft knock on the door and, as my manservant is busy with bedlinen, open it myself to find Cromwell standing outside in the corridor. He looks slightly unwell; perhaps he is not so impervious to lack of sleep after all. Without speaking, I stand aside to invite him in.

Taking a seat by the fire, he sits and broods for a while, the light of the flames dancing over his face, before he speaks, "Did you know that More once threatened me with hot irons?"

This is entirely unexpected, and I stutter slightly, trying to find some words.

Cromwell doesn't look up, but continues to stare at the flames, "He had an iron in the fire - just like this one; and his men pinned me down over a table ready for it. He never did it - but I always wondered if he would have done had I not had the favour of the King. He knew I was a heretic."

This time I find words, "Are you suggesting that Sir Thomas More was going to _brand_ you?"

"Only that he threatened to. He never called anyone to retrieve the iron from the fire - it was more to unnerve me than to cause me real harm. Much of his talk was of how much worse the stake would be."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. You may have noticed that I have trained myself to become very, very still for long periods. I did that - and said not a word. I did not understand why he was acting as he was - despite his furious determination to stamp out that which he called heresy, he had never before displayed such a vindictive streak. I sometimes wonder if something had control of him - or whether it truly was his hatred of my faith."

"But you didn't fight back?"

He shakes his head, "I had no wish to alert him to my true position at court. With the loss of Wolsey, I had no Second, and none knew of my purpose. The Mission is All - and I had no desire to allow More to know of it. He lacked Wolsey's edge in accepting the need for violence when circumstances call for it. His preference was always for a peaceful solution - unless it involved heresy."

"But what did he do?"

This time he shrugs, "He let me go. Whether it was because I was not intimidated by him, or simply that he came to his senses, I don't know." Then he turns to me, "But I still wonder if he was controlled by something - for he never spoke of it again; even after he had questioned me over my beliefs a second time."

I feel bemused - why is Cromwell telling me this? In what way could it possibly be relevant? He turns back to the fire and continues to brood. Perhaps it is simply because the man is dead. He must be - and Cromwell came here as soon as he had spoken to the King. It feels odd - but maybe now that I am his Second, he feels he can confide in me. I am not sure whether this makes me pleased or uncomfortable.

The distant sound of a bell striking the hour slips into the silence, and I welcome it, as it calls us to work. Since it now seems absolutely official that I have this unexpected extra task, I take his instructions to abandon formality to heart, "Come Thomas. We need to be on our way. Duty calls."

He pauses, shakes himself, and looks at me with a slightly apologetic expression before levering himself out of the chair with almost visible reluctance.

Our journey through the palace is rather slower than Cromwell's usual swift march, and Wriothesley is almost hopping with worry as we reach the office chambers. The reason for his distress is standing at Cromwell's desk - the Captain of the Guard. He, too, looks worried.

"Forgive me, my Lord," he stammers, visibly pale, "Another body has been found."

My eyes widen - how can there have been another killing? Had we not dispatched the ravener only two nights past? Surely there is not another lurking so soon…I turn to look at Cromwell, who seems resigned, and sighs, "Lead on, Captain."

He takes us on a brisk march through the corridors, our hurried pace drawing eyes as we go. As we pass a small group of gossiping courtiers, one of them peels away and follows us: Wyatt. He knows from our expressions that something is afoot.

We stop outside a door that, like many that are reserved for the servants, I have never noticed before, and the Captain swallows nervously, "I should warn you, Sirs, that what lies beyond is offensive to the eyes of God - and I have never seen the like. Prepare yourselves - for it is a most evil sight."

Cromwell says nothing, but merely nods. Reluctantly, the Captain opens the door and beckons us through. My first immediate impression is the strange smell, like iron, that fills the air. It is unfamiliar to me, but clearly not to anyone else, as Wyatt pulls a face, and I finally see the cause of the Captain's alarm.

It is, as he claimed, another corpse; a young servant of barely fifteen years as far as I can tell; though, in all honesty, telling is extremely difficult, as something has pounced upon the poor boy and…my stomach, almost empty though it is, begins to churn hopelessly, for his throat has been torn out, and I can see bone…

I cannot stay; gulping awkwardly, I turn and flee to the open air, before dropping to my knees over a fortuitous drain and bringing up what little breakfast I had been able to face when I woke. Each time I stop retching, that horrid vision rises again in my eyes, and once more I must lean forward - until I am bringing up only bile. I have never seen anything so hideous…never…

A hand rests upon my shoulder; Wyatt has come to my aid, and he offers me a kerchief to mop at my sweaty brow, before summoning a passing servant to fetch me some hippocras to settle my wayward stomach, "Come, Mr Rich, seat yourself here in the breeze where the air is fresher."

Thankful for his assistance, I hobble to a nearby bench and sink down on it, still feeling horribly sick, but no longer able to bring anything up. I hope that, when it arrives, the hippocras will stay put. I need it to remove the foul taste from my mouth. I also need to be fortified against the mortified sense of humiliation that is now enclosing me as I have clearly fled from a corridor and emptied my stomach in front of a large number of people; many of them courtiers who, once they have recovered from their disgust at my misfortune will, no doubt, find great amusement in it.

The servant arrives with the hippocras, and I sip at it gingerly, in the hope that my stomach will accept it. Fortunately, it seems disinclined to make a reappearance, and I lean back against the wall of the corridor, breathing deeply and trying to ignore the still unpleasant taste that has even managed to insinuate itself into my sense of smell. It is only as I do so that I see him; a spectacularly overdressed idiot in bright colours that are not quite close enough to cloth of gold to break the elaborate dress code of the Court, but just sufficient to give an air of self importance. I would scowl at him, but I still feel too sick. Instead, I stare dumbly at him as he eyes me with barely disguised contempt, before sneering and turning away towards a group of equally feather-brained hangers on, with whom he proceeds to make jokes at my expense.

"Ah, Mr Edward Mortimer, Mr Rich." Wyatt smiles, "A truly magnificent cock is he not?"

I cannot stop myself from snorting into the hippocras, "Peace Thomas!" I hiss at him, "He might hear you!"

Wyatt laughs, cheerfully, "I think not. He has departed his merry way with his fellow fools. Beware of him, though - he is a thoroughgoing bastard in every aspect, both legal and moral. I'm given to understand the ladies cannot resist him."

"They can keep him." I grumble darkly into the last of the hippocras. The hideous door opens, and Cromwell emerges. In the brighter light, he looks pale, and I feel less embarrassed at my nauseated flight. The sight has clearly disturbed even him, so I - a mere infant in such matters - can be excused for being unable to contain myself. I hope.

"I shall need to speak to the King," he announces, gravely, "I have no idea what might have done this; but the whole place reeked of ichor. It is perhaps just as well that the Palace is reaching a point where the Court should depart. I think it is time that we did so."

Wondering even more fervently what I have got myself into, I nod, and exchange a glance with Wyatt. Regardless of our nerves, we have made our choice. Now we must abide by it.


	10. The Stubborn Chancellor

Sitting in his favourite chair, wrapped warmly against the winter chill that the fire can only do so much to dispel, Thomas re-reads the letter that he has received informing him that Cardinal Wolsey is dead. Halfway back to London from York to face charges of treason, he fell ill at Leicester, and his illness proved to be mortal.

Setting the letter aside, he reaches for the prayer book that Wolsey left him. It holds no secrets, no ciphers or suggestions. It is, quite simply, Wolsey's most treasured possession. The first time he picked it up, he shed tears; but no longer. As he repeats to himself frequently when discouraged, _the Mission is All_. He cannot afford to be distracted by emotions. Something is coming, and he is all that stands to stem the tide.

William returned from the seamstresses barely an hour ago with the news that, unfortunately, the horrendous rent in his doublet cannot be seamlessly repaired. He has not asked how such a calamity had come upon the garment, as he is used to seeking assistance in the mending of damaged clothing, though to have had the entire doublet slit from top to bottom was absolutely unexpected. But then, the manner in which it happened has caught its wearer equally by surprise.

Thomas had been expecting a summons from the new Lord Chancellor for some time. As King's Secretary, it would have been most strange to have been barred from More's office - and he attended, papers in hand, intending to inform the new Chancellor of the situation at court so that he could either continue with the policies of his predecessor, or adopt new ones.

The meeting had begun cordially enough, as he handed over papers reporting on progress with all activities approved by the King, and More had accepted them without demur. Every now and again, he would nod, or shake his head, at something Thomas would mention, before finally sitting back and regarding him solemnly.

"And what," he had said, "Is the current policy with regard to the heretical sects that are emerging amongst us? I am concerned that Cardinal Wolsey had no interest in stamping out such wrongful activities."

"My Lord?" Thomas could not help but look startled; there was no official policy on the issue of heresy, though it was considered to _be_ heresy, no one had really acted against those of reformist views. Not that he had placed his own on open display. Wolsey might have been unconcerned, but Wolsey had been his Second.

It had all gone rather startlingly downhill from there. As More had begun to warm up to his topic, he had become almost frighteningly focused on implementing the harshest measures - so at odds with the humanist reputation for which he was so known that it had left Thomas rather stunned. Stunned enough, in fact, to forget himself, and he had suggested that burning heretics was, perhaps, not the most appropriate response for a man of More's principles.

Instead of mollifying the man, the words had inflamed him, and he had leaped up in such a shocking rage that a pageboy nearby dropped a flask of wine on the floor in fright. Accusing him of being a heretic himself, More had summoned two burly servants, who had forced the Master Secretary down onto the table, crushing and crumpling the papers, while More had shoved a poker in the nearby fire.

Thomas had struggled at first, convinced that something had gone wrong in More's mind. Even at his most prejudiced, the Chancellor had never advocated violence. Something had to be wrong…it _must_ be…he couldn't possibly be as crazed as this. It grew worse, however, as one of the two servants pulled out a dagger, and used it to slit his doublet down the back, before bundling up the linen of his shirt to expose his flesh.

More had then leaned over him, whispering horrible threats of flames and the stake, all the while, the poker heating in the fire. _Imagine how much worse fire will be compared to this?_ It was mad - utterly mad - he couldn't possibly be so insane as to torment a man with hot irons in his own personal chambers? Fighting down a sudden urge to panic, Thomas had instead fixed his gaze on the hand of one of the servants holding him down. The ring finger was adorned with a signet ring that bore a curious design on it… _focus…focus…_

He had gone still. Dead still. No words, no movement. All of his energies fixed only on the design on the ring. He flinches at the memory; He is, after all, no stranger to pain - no Silver Sword is - but to endure relies upon absolute focus, and so he had done exactly that: barely even blinking, he had waited for the touch of hot metal…

But it had not come.

Without a word, More had moved away, and the two servants had stood away from him, allowing him to stand up. Dishevelled and halfway between badly shaken, and furiously angry, he had drawn himself up as tall and straight as he could and glared at the Chancellor, who seemed not to have noticed, instead gazing at the fire with strangely glazed eyes. Again that thought had struck him… _something is wrong with the Chancellor_ …to have acted in such a directly violent manner was not his way, and never had been. His reputation had always been one of humanity and peaceful discourse.

Thomas was not, however, granted the opportunity to question More, as one of the servants had grabbed his shoulders and bundled him unceremoniously out of the chamber - as though he had been an unwanted intruder - leaving him with little option but to make his way back to his own apartments with a ruined doublet. At least he had been able to tuck his shirt back in.

And it had been one of his favourite doublets, too…

He sighs, wishing that Wolsey was still there to confide in. They could have examined the Index, discussed More's astonishingly out of character behaviour; but Wolsey is _not_ there. He is dead. Thomas shall have to try to work it out on his own - and, equally importantly, try to find the time to actually _do_ it. No wonder Silver Swords at the Royal Courts are assigned Seconds; it is only now that he lacks one that he truly understands how much he had come to rely upon Wolsey's aid.

"Master Cromwell?" William leans over him, a cup of warm milk seasoned with nutmeg in his hand, "Forgive my interruption, but I feel you should know that talk amongst the servants suggests another ravener is concealing itself in the shadows. One of the pot washers was followed to her quarters last night, and it was only the passage of the Watch that drove it away."

"Another?" the news startles him; even though Raveners are by far the most common foes he faces, he is always amazed at how quickly another moves in after he dispatched the one before. At least there is never more than one at a time - they seem unable to run in packs - but it is still almost a monthly occurrence, if not more frequent, that he is obliged to send another of the wretched creatures into oblivion. And yet, they seem to be recurring now with a regularity that he has never seen before. It seems that Wolsey's letter might be correct - the darkness is indeed gathering.

And it has chosen to gather now that he is alone. He should write to the Grand Master - he needs to have a Second. His mind made up, Thomas rises from his chair and fetches a cloak. The swords are locked in his office, but he needs the walk to regain his focus. Leaving William with the undrunk milk, he slips out into the darkened corridors to hunt.

* * *

Despite himself, and the endless distraction of his work both as the King's Secretary and as a hunter of demons, Thomas cannot help but feel a minor sense of dread as he approaches the Chancellor's chamber for his second meeting with More. In the past week alone, he has dispatched another ravener, and has even found a lurking revenant, who quickly met its end on his blades, but the increase in creatures of darkness entering the palace, regardless of his presence, is becoming ever more obvious, and he has no idea why it is happening beyond the vague warning in Wolsey's letter.

He stops at the door, hesitates slightly, curses himself for being such a fool, and finally knocks; entering at More's summons. The room is empty but for More himself and a single page - a different one to the boy who had dropped the wine - and More looks up at him with an altogether more welcoming expression than the one he had borne while waiting for the poker to heat.

"Take a seat, Secretary Cromwell," he invites, summoning the page to pour out two cups of claret, "Are the papers signed?"

"They are, my Lord," a little confused, Thomas holds out his wallet of papers for More to take. He had expected at least some indication that there had been a confrontation between them only a matter of days ago - but it seems that More has either opted to ignore it, or does not remember it. He isn't entirely sure which it might be.

He sits in silence as More examines the papers, nodding, making little 'hmm' noises, and occasionally shaking his head with a sigh. At length, the Chancellor gathers the documents together, bundles them into the wallet and hands them back. As he does so, he pauses, and look sat Thomas more closely, "Are you quite well, Master Secretary? You seem rather tense."

Thomas opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again; unable to think of anything to say. It must be that More has indeed completely forgotten that he had ordered his servants to assault him. How could he possibly not remember it? Either that, or he is a terrifyingly capable actor.

"Come now," More smiles, "I am not so fearsome, am I? I am God's servant, as much as the King's, and our work to stamp out these Lutheran heresies must cause me to appear draconian - but I am obliged to act to defend the faith as much as His Majesty."

Unable to stop himself, Thomas shudders slightly. He knows of six unfortunates who are now in the Tower, facing the worst sanction. If he is not careful, he might join them.

"After all," More continues, "It is my preference to dissuade rather than to punish - but where I have no choice, I must act. I'm sure you appreciate that. There is always room in the Church for repentance, and forgiveness for those who recant their heretical beliefs." His smile is still kind, and there is nothing in his words to suggest duplicity, or deceit - but still…

_He knows…_

Thomas feels a little sick; More must know that he has been attending those secretive meetings where those who support the Lutheran reformations gather to discuss and debate. He is delivering not an observation, but a warning. Without Wolsey's red robes to disguise him, he is truly vulnerable to discovery now. And More has made that discovery.

_The Mission is All_ …

He draws himself up, "I serve God and the King, as all good English subjects do."

More is still smiling, benevolently, "I have no doubt that you do, Master Secretary. I have no doubt that you do. Others, however, do not - and if they continue to adhere to heresy, then they must die. All who sin so grievously must be delivered in fire." There is a hardness in his eyes - but not that ghastly anger. _This_ is More the fanatic, not the other one, the one who had almost burned him. Whatever it was that had driven him to act as he had, it is gone. Relieved, Thomas reaches for his claret, and finally finds something to say, though it makes him deeply uncomfortable to say it, "Then they shall burn."

"Alas, yes. They shall. But we must not view their deaths with remorse, Master Cromwell, for to do so is to sympathise with the sins they committed that brought them there, and to accept their refusal to accept the true Church. Instead, we must pray that they shall, at the last, find their way to God's side."

A little sickened, Thomas rises to leave, then pauses, "I almost forgot, my Lord - forgive me. The King asks whether you have considered the question of the annulment, and the Act of Supremacy." He had not truly forgotten - but the possibility of stirring that hideous anger had More still been affected by his strange rage has held his tongue.

More sighs now, "I am yet to consider it." He says, quietly, "I shall be dining with Dr Fisher tonight, and we shall discuss the matter there."

Bowing courteously, Thomas gathers the papers and departs. He had not expected More to concede - but at least his doublet is intact this time. Returning to the offices, he stops at the sound of someone calling his name, and turns to see George Boleyn chasing after him. While he loathes the father, he does not dislike the son, or the daughter, for that matter, and his smile at George's approach is genuine.

"I see my Lord Chancellor has kept you busy, then, Master Secretary." George enthuses, "Have you eaten? We have a fine haunch of venison awaiting our attention in our apartments if you would care to join us." He pauses, a little conspiratorially, "Father will not be joining us. He is on the King's business." He might behave like a junior partner, but he is no fool - he knows exactly where the land lies, and that Thomas has no liking for the newly ennobled Thomas Boleyn.

"I should very much like to," he agrees, "If you would permit me to return these papers to the offices first."

"Of course - but be quick, or there'll be none left for you!" laughing cheerfully, George claps him on the shoulder, and heads off.

_How could someone so unpleasant as Boleyn have brought two such decent young people into the world_? He shakes his head at the strangeness of things, and heads to the offices to drop off his papers.

* * *

He has returned late from his quiet patrolling of the corridors - fruitless for once - and the sound of knocking on his door is not welcome, certainly not while it is still dark. Groaning a little, he pushes back the covers and tries to sit up as he summons William into the bedchamber, "What is it?"

"My apologies, Master Cromwell - it is the Captain of the Guard. He has been sent to summon you to Doctor Fisher's house. He has been poisoned."

" _What_?" Now he is awake. Dr Fisher had been hosting a group of fellow clergy - and the Lord Chancellor…dear God - what if they are all dead?

Hastily dressing, and thankful for William's assistance in his haste, Thomas joins the worried looking Captain, who does not wait to launch into an explanation, "We think the poison was in a soup - Doctor Fisher lives, barely, for he ate little of it. Four are dead. The Lord Chancellor is unharmed - but only because he ate none of it at all. It is not known what it was - but it was quick, and powerful - they died before they had finished their dishes."

"Have you questioned the cook?" It is the inevitable first question, "Could any other have poisoned their meal?"

"The cook is arrested, Master Secretary, but he has said nothing. We do not know whether he remained with the food throughout, or not. He will not talk to anyone."

Thomas nods, "I shall start there, then. There seems to be little value in my attending the scene. Where is the cook held?"

"Newgate, Master Secretary. He was not considered worthy of the Tower. I shall arrange a horse and an escort for you. The streets should not be travelled alone at night."

He does not argue. Despite being perfectly capable of protecting himself against footpads, it is never worth declining the offer of protection. Besides, if he arrives in the company of Royal Guards, it shall be easier to prove his credentials to the surly gatekeepers.

As they clatter through sleeping streets, Thomas wonders not _why_ the cook has done what he has, but _how_. Poisons that act so quickly and effectively are as rare as they are costly. No servant could hope to afford such a compound - relying instead on cheaper, and slower methods if too squeamish to use a knife or a cord. Someone must have procured it for him…

_Boleyn_.

He wonders if it is his personal animosity that has brought that name to mind; but it has to be. Who else? Suspicion, however, is not proof - and with such power, Boleyn is effectively untouchable, even to the Master Secretary. If he cannot safely accuse Boleyn, then a lowly cook would have no hopes of doing so. It is, then, a question of how willing the man is to cleave himself to an assassin who shall certainly offer no such loyalty in return.

The cook is a pitiful sight; dressed only in a sack-cloth smock and perched in a wooden chair. As a man who has been taught to resist interrogation, Thomas knows well how to interrogate effectively; but even as he goes over his questions again and again, he cannot persuade the anguished man to talk. Whatever is holding his tongue is clearly much more effective than whatever he can gain by loosing it.

After three hours, the sun has risen, and he is beginning to accept that he is getting nowhere; but then the sound of the door opening made him look up; and he has to force himself not to grimace in disgust: Boleyn. Maintaining a veneer of courtesy, he nods, "Your Grace."

Boleyn says nothing, opting instead to stand by the door and watch as he begins his questions yet again. This time, however, as the man implicates himself with every word he speaks, he looked fixedly at the newest arrival, his words apparently laden with meaning for two entirely different ears. He had wanted money to pay for his daughters' marriages…he will not say who had paid him. Even the offer of a reward fails, and he finally gives up. The cook must have acted under duress - three daughters to protect. No wonder he has refused to betray the one who gave him the poison.

Riding back to Whitehall in the light of a new day, he sighs to himself. Doubtless the cook shall die, but somehow he knows that it shall not be an easy death; and the King's will proves him right. No more than two days later, he is back at Newgate, with damned Boleyn at his side, and even George, who looks absolutely impassive as they prepare the desperate man to be lowered into a pot of boiling water. Poisoners now being condemned to be boiled alive.

He has dispatched countless demons; cut off the head of a corrupt priest…witnessed torture in the Tower and executions on the scaffold. This, however, is different. The man above them in chains has been used - used to commit a foul act so that the one who had sent him can stay free. Even now, he remains silent on the matter - asking only that his daughters be told he had died well. But then, if he had not betrayed his employer while he had the chance of escape, why would he do it now?

The creak of ropes as the executioner turns the windlass make him shudder, and Thomas cannot help but shut his eyes. Beside him, he knows that Boleyn is watching as impassively as his son - but only to ensure that the poor, condemned cook does not lose his nerve and start to name names as he feels the steam rising from the water below.

Fortunately, it does not take as long as he had feared, but still the screams are ringing in his ears as he turns on his heel and walks briskly out. He cannot face the ride back to Whitehall in the company of Boleyn - it is utterly impossible. He should rather kill the man than speak civilly to him after the horror he has been unable to witness, but could not keep from hearing. Doubtless Boleyn shall be celebrating his escape from implication with something roasted, or possibly boiled.

Gagging slightly at the thought, Thomas rides away.

* * *

It is done. Cranmer has finally declared Queen Katherine's marriage to the King null and void, and she is no longer queen. Instead she is the Dowager Princess of Wales, a title taken from Arthur, her first husband. Now Anne can finally be married, and crowned.

Today, however, she is to be ennobled - in her own right. Such a privilege is all but unheard of, and there has been much muttering in the court over such an occurrence. As the King's Secretary, it is Thomas's role to announce her new title, which he has done with all courtesy and ceremony. She is not to blame for her father's limitless ambition, nor is she to blame for the fact that the King wants her for himself. Nor even, if he admits to himself to look at her, for returning that ardent desire with love - for love it is. As he bows deeply to hand the King the letters patent confirming her status as Marquess of Pembroke, he does so with genuine hopes that they shall be happy.

Firstly, however, they shall depart for France. Thomas shall not be part of that progress, a matter for which he is far more grateful than chagrined. Gallivanting across the channel is of no use to him while there are yet more creatures wandering the halls of the Palace in ever greater numbers. He desperately needs time to try and find out _why_ \- and yet, thanks to all the business at court, not to mention the need to keep hunting, he has not yet had the chance to retire to Grant's Place to investigate the Library.

He has not even had time to write to the Grand Master to request the assignment of a new Second…

"A word, Cromwell." Boleyn is behind him, treating him as a personal servant again. Pausing only to permit himself a brief scowl, he rearranges his features to a more polite expression and turns to the Earl, "Your Grace?"

"More might have resigned as Chancellor, but I have no doubt he will not remain silent on the matter of the Reformation, or of Anne's future. I need you to seek some… _evidence_ that he has treasonous intentions. Find what you can - fabricate if you must. I will not see my work brought down by a miserable Catholic plotter. D'you hear?" Boleyn's voice sinks to a bitter whisper, and he grips Thomas's arm painfully tight.

"Yes, your Grace," he mutters, forcing himself to keep the hatred out of his voice. Unless More really does intend to work against the King - something that he has promised not to do - he has no desire to harm his former Chancellor. Despite their issues with one another over religion, and the loss of his favourite doublet, he has nothing but admiration for More's courage. There is no one else at court - and he considers himself to be one of those no-ones - who is as unafraid of the King and his rages. Had More not been so indefatigably catholic, they might well have worked well together, and even become friends. Instead, More has retired from court, unable to accept the changes afoot, and now Boleyn is demanding that Thomas work against him.

But, as he has told himself over and over again, the Mission is All. If More _does_ disrupt the new order, it could bring down a great deal more than just a marriage. With the succession still unsettled, the risk of another war over who should rule if Henry dies remains strong. War brings chaos - which is the natural environment in which demons thrive. Peace is their enemy, and it is his job to maintain it. If that means removing More, then he shall have to do it.

With the King absent from court, and More apparently keeping his promise to make no public comment, Boleyn seems content for him to get on with his own work for the time being, and - at last - he can make the time to visit Grant's Place and try to find something in the Library that might explain the increasing number of demonic incursions into the Court. That it is happening in the Royal palaces does not surprise him overly, as the good order of the Kingdom depends upon the governance within them. Why else would he have been placed there? But if only he could work out _why_ it is happening - and equally importantly, why it is happening _now_.

It proves a frustrating exercise. Even with Wolsey's inestimable Great Index to help him, he simply does not have the knowledge of the Library that he needs to track down everything it contains. Only Wolsey had spent sufficient time within these shelves to truly know where a volume lay, or which scroll contained the treatise he was looking for. God…he really needs a Second…

By the time the King and Anne have, he has made no progress, and the frustration gnaws at him deeply. It is not a lack of intelligence, or a logical turn of mind, that is keeping him in the dark, yet he cannot help but feel utterly stupid in the face of Wolsey's remarkable efficiency. He has found nothing. _Nothing._ And he is no further forward now than he had been when the King had departed.

Their trip appears to have been successful in more than one respect, and Thomas cannot help but suspect that Anne has finally relaxed her ban on Henry approaching her on more intimate terms. The King seems remarkably contented, as though a bridge has been crossed, and his eagerness to get wed is such that he has opted to ignore the need for banns, and all has been done swiftly and easily. Cranmer has been more than happy to declare the marriage valid, and now all that remains is for the crown to be placed on her head.

And thus More has finally made the first moves that shall inevitably commence the process of putting his head on the block. Invited to the Coronation, he did not attend; an absence that has not gone unnoticed or unremarked. Much as Thomas admires the former Chancellor's bravery and conviction, he is not so convinced about More's overall judgement. Even for a man as resolutely unafraid of the King as More, he cannot continue to annoy the King for much longer without some censure or other - and his continued refusal to accept the annulment, and the break it has generated with Rome, can only have one outcome - which it duly does. Summoned back to court to swear an oath of allegiance to Henry as Supreme Head of the Church of England, he has refused to do so, and is now in the Tower.

Inevitably, Boleyn is circling like a vulture, and corners Thomas in the offices late one evening with a determined, softly hissed, insistence that he start working on removing the problem at his earliest convenience - which, in Boleyn's terms means: _immediately_. To drive home the point, he shoved Thomas backwards into the unyielding doors of cupboard before turning and sweeping out, brushing aside the goggling clerks, who scatter back to their work as soon as he straightens himself up again and shoots them all a rather angry glare.

He knows, though, that he cannot do this alone. Not any more - as More is no longer interested in talking to him, and has always suspected his motives. As More is largely right to do so, Thomas decides to change tack, getting up from his desk and crossing the chambers to visit another, "Mr Rich. Could I have a word in private, please?"

Thomas has no real liking for Richard Rich - something of a scoundrel, with a reputation for immorality, dishonesty and greed - and deeply cowardly at times. He is, however, highly intelligent and very sharp; and he was acquainted with More in his youth. If anyone can persuade the former Chancellor to take the final, fatal step, it shall be him. Reluctant though he is to shift the ground under More's feet, the Mission is All, and the evidence he has that suggests that More is rallying catholic nobles to his views is making it impossible for him to avoid what he is about to do. More's behaviour is starting to interfere with the maintenance of peace, and that cannot continue.

"Master Secretary?" Rich seats himself before Thomas's desk, not doing anything like as good a job to conceal his equal dislike as he thinks he is.

"As you are aware, the former Lord Chancellor is facing charges of treason for his continued refusal to accept the Oath of Supremacy. I believe the two of you are acquaintances?"

Rich nods, "I have encountered him on a few occasions during my youth."

"I must ask something of you that I would not ask if I had any other choice. It is a rather distasteful task - but nonetheless it must be carried out. That More has committed treason is not in doubt. He has, however, done so in such fashion as to ensure that there is little evidence with which to convict him. I require you to obtain it from him. We must obtain an outright admission from him that he has no intention of swearing the Oath, and that he remains loyal to the Dowager Princess of Wales - even to the point that he would encourage or attempt the removal of Queen Anne to secure her restoration if he could. He would never make such admission to me - but he might to you."

Rich's expression was is strange one, partly distaste, but also interest at the challenge set for him. A man with no known convictions in any direction, his primary concern appears to be gaining, and keeping, favour and the associated political power. If he can secure the downfall of More, and win success from it, he shall certainly try. Oddly, as he watchs Rich's expressions changing while he thinks the task through, Thomas is struck by a thought of his own that startles him.

_The way his brain works - he could be ideal to be my Second_.

A lawyer to the marrow, Rich is more than capable in his role as Solicitor General, and his love of books and words is unmistakeable. If he can pull this off, then it might be worth considering making the offer - after all, even a man he dislikes to the point of loathing is better than no one at all.

Pulling himself together, Thomas looks at Rich pointedly, awaiting his answer.

"I shall see to it, Master Secretary. Hopefully within a week. Two at most."

Thomas nods and dismissed him. While he has no idea whether Rich shall be able to live with what they are about to do, he can't help but wonder if _he_ shall.

_The Mission is All. The Mission is ALL._

Closing his eyes and sitting back in his chair, Thomas also wonders if enough repetition of that statement shall make him believe it.

It appears that Rich has underestimated his ability to worm his way around More. Within two days he is at Thomas's desk, a rather odd look of triumph and disgust on his face. He has succeeded - but he doesn't like it. As Thomas is still trying to persuade himself that the outcome shall be worth the guilt upon his conscience, he can sympathise.

"He did not make any guilty statement directly to me - but his words, represented... _appropriately_ , would be sufficient." Rich reports, "Would you like my report?"

Thomas shakes his head, "I'm sorry to ask more of you, Mr Rich - but you will need to state this in open court."

"You want me to perjure myself?" Even the unscrupulous Mr Rich looks shocked at this; but he consents, and his weasel words win the day. By the end of it, More has been found guilty, and is condemned to a Traitor's death. The Mission might be All, but the price it has demanded is grotesquely high. Peace has to reign at court - not strife; and if he can keep that peace, then perhaps it shall all have been worth it.

Even after a week, he is still struggling with it. Brooding over some papers at his desk - papers that require considerable, and tedious work - he sighs, yet again. More is still in the Tower; John Fisher is dead, and mourned. Even now, if he passes Rich's desk, he can be sure of a mildly reproachful glare.

He doesn't look up as a clerk sets a small folded paper in front of him, but nods an acknowledgement and takes it. The writing is William's, so he waits until the clerk has moved away before he opens it.

_Master Cromwell, I must warn you that some of the servants are talking of a group of strange people who are concealing themselves within one of the storehouses. It appears that they are waiting for after dark. As the King and Queen are hosting a feast tonight, I am fearful that they might be of evil intent. I have your swords ready for you and will dispatch a pitcher of cordial to your offices in case it is required. W_

At last - a proper distraction. If there is a group involved, it might be best to ensure that he is prepared in case of injury. As the hour approaches six, and the last of the clerks departs, he opens the one cupboard in the offices that does not contain papers, and fetches out the black coffer that contains his supply of sovereign specific. Much as he hates the stuff, it shall do him no good if he cannot get to it. William has been busy since dispatching the letter, and a servant arrives with a covered flagon of the loathsome cordial. Setting it to one side with a cup and a basin ready in case of need, Thomas takes up his gauntlets, and the papers. If Rich dislikes him now, he shall shortly hate him even more.

The bell is striking the hour. Stopping at Rich's desk, he apologetically assigns the work to the Solicitor General, earning himself a badly concealed scowl in the process. He cannot explain the reason for his absence. He shall just have to find some form of redress tomorrow.


	11. The Churlish Gentleman

 

My stomach has largely settled by the time I return to to the office Chambers and take a seat at my desk; though it still threatens to rebel somewhat if I allow myself to think of the scene I witnessed in the corridor, so I make myself concentrate firmly on the papers before me. Besides, if the King agrees that we are to move, we will need to abandon our work to begin packing.

Cromwell is gone for no more than half an hour, and he confirms upon his return that the King has indeed agreed that it is time for Hampton Court to be, as the King puts it: 'sweetened'. A polite term for the hideously unsanitary mess that the place has become to be extensively cleaned and scrubbed. It is, after all, impossible to house so many people in one place without it becoming something of a midden in time.

"Are we to begin work for the removals?" Wriothesley asks, looking about with mild dread at the mess of papers and books that we have accumulated over the last few months.

"Not immediately," Cromwell says, drawing a mildly relieved look from the Clerk, "though the boys should begin clearing and filing papers at the earliest opportunity so that we can begin when the time arrives. Placentia will require some preparation before the Court removes - the repairs to the King's storm-damaged chambers are not yet complete."

He heads to his desk, beckoning to me as he goes. I follow him and sit opposite, while he waves away the nearest clerks to give us at least some privacy, "His Majesty doesn't know about the second death at present - though it cannot be kept from him for too much longer. While neither of these deaths were caused by weapons, the fact that another has occurred will unsettle him. While I would give all to keep him alive, he is a King, and as such presides over the peace of the realm - so others would give all to see him dead. He is not unaware of that."

I shudder slightly. To talk of the King's death is highly risky, even in terms of fighting to prevent it. Even a relatively young king, such as Henry, is not immune from the final journey - and his fear of dying without a son to succeed him makes even a tentative suggestion of such an occurrence almost a treasonable act. No wonder Cromwell is talking so quietly.

"How do you intend to broach the matter?" I ask, equally quietly.

"I am undecided," he admits, "it would, however, be wise to do so before Norfolk takes it upon himself to tell the King on my behalf, and draw attention to my silence on the matter."

This time, I have to ask, "Why does he despise you so?"

Cromwell looks surprised, "Norfolk? For one reason, and one alone: I am a commoner; he is a Duke. My meritorious advancement rankles with him as he feels such an ascendancy belongs only to a Nobleman, which I am not." He smiles then, and I realise that he considers Norfolk's ire to be nothing more than an inconvenience to be treated with amused disregard. He does not dismiss it - he is not fool enough to do such a thing - but neither does it wound him or impact upon his work.

After another hour's labour, Cromwell is obliged to return to the Presence Chamber with some completed papers, and we take some time to eat. As I do so, I feel an odd sense of dislocation. The daily workings of the Court are so ordinary, so normal; and yet, not one other person around me has any knowledge or understanding of the savage undercurrents that wash around them all unseen. I am now privy to that knowledge - and yet, the sense of strangeness is still there. Maybe, in time, I shall become accustomed to it. It's clear that Cromwell has, so I assume I shall, too.

When we reconvene, Cromwell quietly advises that he has told the King of the second murder. As the _Modus Operandi_ is completely different from the first, he has taken care to emphasise that the two events are unrelated; but the King's Grace is demanding that the matter be resolved, and the killer caught, before the Court removes to Placentia. While he is clearly relieved not to have the burden of silence, the replacement of that with a new burden - a deadline - is the last thing that he wanted.

"While it coincides with my own," he admits, "I should have preferred not to have had it officially imposed - to resolve a matter such as this will not be simple. The King's expectations of results are much higher and more exacting than Wolsey's - the Cardinal understood if I could not solve a problem of demonic nature. The King will not."

"But, is it not another ravener?" I ask, and his expression shows I am revealing my innocence of such matters.

"I truly wish that it were, Richard," He sighs, "But the manner of death was too quick. The boy would've died more or less instantly, albeit with much defilement of the surroundings." He pauses, with a slightly apologetic look, as I sway slightly, and swallow hard, "For raveners, the joy of the kill is in the pain of the victim. It's that upon which they feed, not the flesh, though they are not averse to supping blood. The anticipation of shock at the discovery of the corpse is also of great interest to them, even though they cannot stand daylight, and are usually unable to witness it."

"So, you don't know what was responsible?"

His expression worried, he shakes his head, "As the Captain said, I have never seen the like." He looks at me then, and I realise he has a task in mind, "I cannot leave the court, Richard. Not at present. You will be less missed than I - so I must ask you to travel to Grant's Place and search the Great Index for me. William shall accompany you - he is aware of the library and its contents, though he has rarely been inside it. He will also serve as proof that you are acting on my behalf. Goodwife Dawson guards the House against all comers. She has met you but once, and thus does not yet trust you."

There is no work that will not wait for my return, so I nod in agreement, though the thought of making the journey on horseback holds no appeal, for I am an indifferent horseman, at best. It does mean, however, that I shall get my first proper taste of the Library, and that most certainly _does_ appeal, and I suspect that my keenness shows, as Cromwell shakes his head - this time with a smile, and returns to his work.

* * *

 The horse that has been selected for me is largely compliant, and solidly built. I have no beast of my own, so William has had a quiet word with the Master of the Horse on my behalf to lend me a mount. Taking my example from Cromwell, I have abandoned my smart simarre, and instead wear a thick cloak to cover me. In spite of myself, I feel altogether roguish, a bonnet upon my head and a cloak about my shoulders, while a goodly sized saddlebag has been fitted to the rear in case I need to bring papers back with me.

William, who is clearly used to such excursions, mounts up easily, and shows commendable restraint as I have no option but to use a mounting block to clamber aboard. I am deeply grateful that there are no other witnesses to my incompetence. He also has a saddlebag attached, but also some weapons hanging from various loops and straps to make an obvious display; even though we are to travel in daylight, the risk of robbery is ever present, particularly as we have no escort. Having never travelled in any group smaller than ten or twenty, I am nervous; and most grateful to not be travelling entirely alone, as I am not safe with weapons myself, and therefore I am unarmed.

It takes us most of the day to make the journey, though perhaps not as long as it might otherwise have done, as William seems to know some routes that enable us to avoid following the river exactly. Having left early, it is mid-afternoon as the horses plod into the yard, and Goodwife Dawson emerges from the house, obviously surprised to see us. At first, she frowns, as she does not seem to remember me from my previous visit, but the sight of William clearly reassures her, and she nods politely before summoning a man to deal with the horses, and ushering us inside.

The house is eerily quiet, as Gregory has returned to the household where he is lodged, and the staff in the house is limited only to those sufficient to keep it from falling into disarray. I know that Cromwell could not afford to maintain it at the moment - wealthy thought he is, he has not been Chancellor for long enough for people to consider whether he is worth approaching with bribes - but clearly Wolsey took steps to ensure that they would be paid before his entire fortune was engulfed by the Royal exchequer.

Goodwife Dawson insists that we eat before we can do anything else other than attempt the mildest of ablutions. Now that she has recovered from the surprise of our unannounced arrival, she has managed to scratch together a light repast of bread and cheese, accompanied by some sharp, still crisp apples that have stored over the winter rather better than expected. Once she has departed, I turn to William, who is standing as though ready to attend me, and invite him to sit and join me. He is not, after all, my servant.

"How well do you know the Library, William?" I ask, slicing a chunk of apple, "I have seen it only once, so I have not the first idea where to start, other than to search the Index."

"I have seen it some few times, my Lord," he says, reaching for a slice of bread only after I prompt him to take it, "My knowledge of its contents is, however, rudimentary at best. His late Eminence was the true guardian of that collection, and he knew it thoroughly. He did not, alas, have the time to teach me some of his knowledge before he was dispatched to York."

I sigh, and chew at the apple, "Then we shall blunder our way through the thickets together, William. I can only hope that the Cardinal's organisation carried beyond the Index and onto the shelves."

Having eaten, we repair to the chamber where the entrance is concealed, and I make my first attempt to open the door myself. Fortunately, my incompetence does not stretch to door opening, and the mechanism obeys my nervous fumblings. Once down in the Cellar, with the assistance of a small lantern, I open the enormous index, and attempt to remember how we used it when Cromwell showed it to me.

The index makes for most uncomfortable reading, as each outcome becomes more detailed as we progress through the choices Wolsey has set out for us. Fortunately, there is one which covers bite wounds, which differentiates between a simple puncturing of the throat, apparently the hallmark of a Revenant, to almost complete evisceration. There is one entry, however, which fits our requirements exactly - the tearing out of the throat. Nervously, I turn to the page that it indicates.

_While most Revenants drink blood only, and do so for survival as much as for pleasure in the fear that their actions create, there is a hierarchy of their kind, and those higher are interested in destruction as much as in blood. They are few in number, but the highest of their kind is called Zaebos. Records CXXVI to CXXVII._

He _has_ used a filing system. Relieved, I look to William, who ponders for a moment, and indicates a set of shelves towards the back. Lighting my way with the lamp, which leaves the unfortunate man in the dark while I do so, I search the shelves he has pointed out, and find two thick packets of papers bearing the corresponding numerals. Upon returning to the reading desk, a brief examination reveals that the packets contain not carefully constructed notes, but torn out pages, pieces of vellum with fragments of faded scrawl and myriad items of such confusing complexity that I know I cannot make sense of them in the light of the lamp. It would, therefore, be most sensible to remove the items and carry them back to Hampton Court so that we can view them collectively - Cromwell, Wyatt and I - in hopes of drawing a conclusion.

We shall not, however, get back to Hampton Court tonight, so Goodwife Dawson has already prepared rooms for us, and serves a fine leg of mutton with bread to mop up the juices, and a sallet of parsley and fennel. Again, William has to be all but ordered to sit with me, but as he has been so helpful, it seems most churlish to expect him to stand by while I feast.

"How long have you worked for the Lord Chancellor?" I ask, as William takes only two, very small slices of mutton.

"Ten years, my Lord," He replies, "I was assigned to be his manservant when he first arrived to work with the Cardinal; though he was not used to having a servant, so it took me some time to persuade him to accept me as such."

I cannot help but smile at the thought - having to be taught by his servant how to have a servant.

"How much do you know of his duties outside the Court?" I hope that I am not prying too much - but if I am to be Cromwell's Second, it would be useful to find out just how much William is involved in the business. I have no wish to ask an inappropriate question, or to inadvertently insult him by giving the impression that he is not trusted.

"I know all, my Lord," William admits, "Master Cromwell has kept me apprised of all his activities, and has placed great trust in me both to keep his secret and to assist him where his Second could not. There are, after all, parts of the Palace that are closed to illustrious men, and he requires my aid in securing information from those places. I see, and hear, but say nothing - except to Master Cromwell."

I nod, and chew on a mouthful of gravy-sodden bread before continuing, "I hope, then, that you would not consider me to be too forward in asking that you include me in your reports?"

"Indeed I would not, my Lord," he says, "You are, after all, Master Cromwell's Second now. I consider it as much my duty to assist you in your joint enterprise as to assist him. As I explained to him when he asked me much the same." He adds, a little pointedly. I laugh, and prevail upon him to take more mutton.

By the time we have returned to Hampton, laden with our papers, our conversation is much more genial and less cautiously polite than it was on the way out. Our jubilation, however, is rather short lived, as the thoroughly unpleasant Edward Mortimer is peacocking it aboard a fine stallion that seems quite intent on throwing him off. He remains aboard, however, and his hangers on are applauding enthusiastically. Once again, his clothing is only just short of violating the palace rules on dress, and his expression as we arrive becomes viciously mischievous.

"Ah, Mister Solicitor General," he drawls, ignoring the rather desperate curvetting of the horse, "Are you certain you should be permitted to ride abroad? Have you not been horse-sick, perchance?"

His toadies laugh, that vile braying sound that always seems to accompany an invitation to laugh at another's expense. I would glare back, but my concern now is that I cannot possibly hope to dismount from the horse unaided, and he will see it. The idea of being such a focus of amusement is deeply unpleasant; but his stallion suddenly swerves violently to the side, and his attention is diverted in restoring control for a sufficient time to enable me to slide off my own mount onto the mounting block. By the time he is looking at me again, I am safely on the ground, and William is detaching the saddlebag while a groom waits to take the beasts back to the stables.

Leaving Mortimer to his amusement, I follow William's inscrutable example and we return to the office Chambers to see if Cromwell is present. He is not, and Wriothesley advises that he is currently with the Privy Council presenting some forthcoming Acts of Parliament. William quietly advises that he will take the papers back to Cromwell's apartments, and ensure that supper is ready for us so that we can peruse their contents. He also offers to seek out Wyatt to request his presence. Bowing discreetly, he departs, and I eye with distaste the papers that have accumulated in my absence.

Later that evening, Cromwell's chamber is a disaster of fragments. Amidst our supper, we have spent nearly an hour attempting to arrange the mess in the packets into some sort of order; but a combination of Cromwell's ability to think logically, my ability to order sensibly, and Wyatt's ability to think laterally, we have something approximating a sensible chronology assembled from the mouse-nibbled and disassembled wreckage. It has been frustrating, but at the same time it has been a surprisingly enjoyable puzzle, and our assumed roles have fitted together well.

"That was fun," Wyatt observes, "We should do this more often." This time he is struck by two napkins, rather than one glove.

After two additional hours, we are all exhausted, and our eyes are strained. Our endeavours, however, are not without result; for now we know more about this strange being referred to as 'Zaebos'. Wyatt has made careful notes of our observations, and reads them back to us.

"So, to the best of our knowledge, Zaebos is from a higher order of Revenants, known by a term that none of us can pronounce, which was given it by a society of which we have never heard."

"Tom…" Cromwell warns, clearly too tired for japes.

"You are too tired to throw another cloth at me, my Lord Chancellor, but then I am too tired to dodge," Wyatt grins back, "According to the oldest references, this being has lived for eons, feasting on blood, or merely destroying that upon which it opts not to feed in order to cast fear and chaos amidst the communities upon which it preys. It was known amongst the ancients of Babylon, but there were no references amongst the tribes of Israel, so it would perhaps have avoided the Holy Land. It is, as far as can be determined, the only one of its kind remaining, so once dispatched there shall be no more to follow it, for it is of such great age that it seems to have lost the ability to create more from living mortals - unlike lower Revenants. We do not, however, have any references that describe how to destroy it - but as it is of the same type as the revenants that we know of, it is most likely that the silver blades would dispatch it."

"But…" I remind him, quietly.

"But?" he asks, momentarily confused until I wave an apparently forgotten fragment at him, "Ah yes, _but_. It would appear that Zaebos is not harmed by daylight as others of its kind would be. Unlike raveners, or lower revenants, it is able to move about by day."

"That suggests," Cromwell adds, "that it has the ability to take other forms. If it looks anything like a revenant, it would be easily discovered in daylight, for they look considerably less than human. Not so hideous as a ravener, but still clearly inhuman."

"Would you be able to sense its presence?" I ask.

"All creatures of darkness give off the smell of ichor - some more strongly than others," Cromwell explains, "The passage reeked of it, so I have no doubt that I shall come across this being at some point. I should prefer to do so sooner rather than later - to destroy it here and now would solve many problems. But I suspect that it shall not be so easy as that - such things rarely are."

"We do, at least, have a target upon which to turn." Wyatt reminds us, "Thus we have made some progress."

As we have been working late into the night, the following morning is a drowsy affair, with much yawning that causes Wriothesley to look at us oddly, for neither of us are known for the sort of carousing that many others are so keen to indulge in, but to look at us, one would have thought that we had spent the night at the gaming tables.

Cromwell has barely sat at his desk before a summons arrives for him - not from the King, but from the Earl of Wiltshire. It is put politely enough - after all, Cromwell's elevation in status now protects him from the Earl's previous assumption that he was just another servant to be ordered around - but still, the fact that Boleyn still feels he can issue such orders must rankle. I am not surprised at Cromwell's discontented expression. I allow myself the uncharitable thought that he looks rather as though he is chewing a wasp.

As I return to my papers, I can hear the clerks whispering amongst themselves, and I take great care to look as though I cannot hear them, despite listening intently; it is, after all, a talent that William has put to great use.

"They say the Queen is with child again," Peter, the youngest, is saying, "after the failure to produce the son she promised, we can only hope that she bears one this time." Despite speaking in only a whisper, I can make out a sense of fervent hope - and perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. He probably has a bad case of calf love for her. He wouldn't be alone in such sentiments.

"She can but hope." Daniel, one of the older clerks hisses back, "God has not smiled on her union - removing the good Queen's grace as she did - she is nothing but a whore."

The group goes silent. Regardless of whether they agree with him, his words are treasonous, not to mention offensive to the smitten Peter. Nervous that matters might escalate, I decide to break things up, "Gentlemen - I know not what has captured your attention so, but should it not be your actual duties? The ones that you are _paid_ to undertake?"

Sheepishly, they disperse; though as Peter passes my desk, I stop him, "One word," I say to him, "And that word is 'Don't'." I can see in his face that he has guessed my meaning, and he looks a little startled as he realises I have overheard their conversation, but have no plan to punish anyone. I have never reacted to such a situation in such manner before - but I know that Cromwell has, and if I am his Second, then I intend to follow his example.

When Cromwell returns, he looks troubled, and asks me to join him outside in the corridor. Bemused, I follow him back out of the chambers, "What is it?"

"The Boleyns," he murmurs, "Not Wiltshire - he has always been that way; but George. He was most strange with me today - I have never known him to be anything other than bright and cheerful; but he is becoming more and more like his father. Worse, there is a residue of ichor about him. They are consorting with something dark - possibly even this Zaebos that we have discovered. I cannot tell - but I cannot think of any other possible cause."

"Are you sure?" I ask, a little nervously.

He shakes his head, uncertainly, "I wish I could be. Perhaps I have not seen it before - but, prior to the annulment, while the matter was still under consideration, the cook in the house of John Fisher served food laced with poison - four died. At the time, I suspected Boleyn, as he had the motive and the funds to pay for the poison as well as to bribe the cook. At the time, when the man died - he was lowered into a cauldron of boiling water - I could not bring myself to watch, but Wiltshire was impassive. I did not pay it much mind it at the time, but now I realise that George was equally stone-faced. I was too revolted by the sound of the man screaming as he was boiled, so I did not credit it with the attention it probably deserved." He looks annoyed - with himself, I am relieved to note.

"Did they ask anything of you?"

"They sought my assistance in securing something as a gift for the King - Wiltshire is concerned that the birth of the Princess Elizabeth may damage his standing at court, as she is not a boy. Her Majesty is with child again, however, so perhaps she may yet deliver the son she - and _he_ \- promised."

I nod, "I overheard the clerks whispering about it. The boy, Peter, he has a bad case of calf love for Her Majesty. Daniel spoke against her, so I hastily broke up their conclave in case of a fight."

Cromwell sighs, "She appears to have that effect on many." He smiles then, briefly, "Raise the subject with our poetic Mr Wyatt - you will see much the same."

"Wyatt?" Why am I surprised? He seems the type easily swayed by beauty - and, although not conventionally beautiful, no one can deny that Queen Anne has a striking uniqueness about her that lifts her above the other women of the Court.

"The same. But for my intervention, I fear that he might act upon his feelings - though I am certain they are not reciprocated. Much of the work I assign to him is designed to keep him busy in the hopes that he will not do something foolish. I doubt I am entirely successful, however. He is truly smitten - to the point that his poetry can, on occasions, become unremittingly mawkish." He grimaces, and I cannot suppress a snort of amusement.

We are about to go back into the Chambers again, when we are disturbed by the sound of running feet and turn together to see a guard rushing towards us, "Lord Chancellor - come quickly! The King is demanding to see you!"

The urgency of the summons, and the fear-dripped tone in which it is expressed, suggests anger on the part of the King, and I notice that Cromwell visibly blanches. Only Thomas More was truly unafraid of King Henry's rages, but that could not save him. Anger from the King results in punishment - sometimes of a permanent nature, and everyone feels their head a little looser on their shoulders when he raises his voice. Cromwell turns to me briefly, and I suddenly see almost an appeal in his eyes - he does not want to go alone. I cannot blame him.

We hasten to the Presence Chamber. As long as I stay well out of the way, I should not be noticed. Despite hurrying, as we approach, the strident tones of Henry the Eighth are echoing down the corridors, "Where is he? Find that damned knave Cromwell! Find him!"

I have no idea what is going through Cromwell's mind as the voice gets louder with proximity, but I feel a cold hollow in the pit of my stomach that is very much in sympathy. Wolsey might well have tolerated delays and setbacks, but the King does not; and all we have to report to him is our best estimate from a scattered mess of ancient scrawl that something he would not believe in is acting in a manner that he would not countenance.

Hiding myself behind a pillar, I watch, nervously, as Cromwell approaches the Canopy of state. The King is on his feet, red-faced in fury, while alongside him, Norfolk watches smugly. The same Norfolk that was apparently placed in charge of the investigation of the murders that have happened here over the last week. If Norfolk is the one leading proceedings, why is the King's anger directed at Cromwell?

The tirade that follows explains all. Norfolk, unable to make any progress, has instead pinned all blame for it on the Lord Chancellor. He cannot account for himself, as the King will not give him leave to speak. As he works himself further into a rage, the King threatens to box his ears, then to hang him, and then to run him through on the spot - had he a sword to hand. It is only after several such threats that he finally screams directly into Cromwell's face that, despite all assurances that the matter was under investigation, another body has been found - again with their throat torn out. I stare, shocked. When did this happen? How is it that we did not know? Why did the Captain of the Guard not report it to us?

Then I realise - the Captain reported to Norfolk, as he had probably been ordered to. Howard has done this deliberately - to misdirect the King's rage at yet another death. He is watching with a vile smirk on his face as the King's rage settles now on the unfortunate Captain, who is - fortunately - not present. This time, however, the King is clearly intent on action, and summons one of his officials to demand the poor man's arrest and summary hanging.

I have never seen the King in one of his fullest rages before. Usually, I hear of them later, when those present are able to laugh over their tankards about it. I am not in the path of this hideous flood - and _I_ am frightened. I cannot imagine how it must be for Cromwell, who is its focus.

It is then, however, that he finally speaks - interrupting as the King stops for breath and turns away in frustration, "Your Majesty - allow me to plead for the Captain - I am charged with the investigation, and I have clearly not given him…"

He gets no further. Without a word, Henry swings back round, but his arm is out wide and he strikes his Lord Chancellor violently across the face with the back of his hand. The blow is fast, and hard, and it unbalances Cromwell, who staggers, and then falls heavily to the carpeted floor with a solid thud, where he sprawls for a moment, apparently too shocked to move.

The entire room goes absolutely still, and for a moment I am quite terrified that the King will order the trembling official to organise the arrest and summary hanging of the Lord Chancellor, too. The silence, however, seems to bring Henry to his senses, and he looks about, as though visibly calming himself down.

"Have it your way," he snaps, glaring at Cromwell, who is still on the floor, "You and that wretched Captain. Find the monster that is murdering in my Palace - or you will find yourself in the Tower." Turning on his heel, he stalks out.

Pausing briefly to enjoy the moment, Howard smirks, then follows. Fortunately, the gathered courtiers begin to disperse as I hurry to Cromwell to help him up. Despite himself, he still looks shaken. His lip is burst, and there is blood on his chin, while his cheek is a flaming red from the blow. Once on his feet, however, he fetches out a kerchief and mops at the blood, then turns to me, his voice level and conversational - as though nothing had happened, "You heard his Majesty. We have a monster to find. I think we had best get to it."


	12. Like a Nail in the Skull

 

We are amongst the first to move to Placentia, as our offices must be operating by the time the Court is fully settled in. Such is the workload that neither Cromwell nor I have time to even think about the strange matters that surround the court. Fortunately, however, the creature that has been stalking the corridors seems also to be busy elsewhere - it would be more hopeful if the creature had been driven away by the activity of the court, but I know that it is merely wishful thinking. As is my hope that we might perhaps leave it behind at Hampton.

The Clerks are so efficient at their work that we are ready to depart earlier than expected, and Cromwell rewards them by allowing them a day's rest - with pay. Their efficiency is largely down to his organisation, with Wriothesley's able assistance, but offering them such rewards is guaranteed to increase their commitment. Despite being such a hard taskmaster upon himself, he seems not to demand such over-intense devotion from those who work under his command.

Again, the seemingly endless stream of strongboxes, trunks and coffers are laden upon large wagons to be pulled by oxen, such is their weight. Some are to travel with us to Placentia, while the rest are to be taken to the main offices at Whitehall for filing and archiving. At least the winter has been relatively dry, so the tracks are not too boggy. The Clerks are assigned a wagon of their own, while Wriothesley travels in a carriage with the keys and a guard. Cromwell decides, to my dismay, that we shall ride behind - as he wishes to talk of matters that cannot be discussed in public. Our accoutrements are also aboard wagons, but he has retained his swords, which are now hanging either side of the saddle of his horse. Unusually, he has also procured a pair of pistols - solid and unadorned, which he carries visibly as a deterrent to any who might choose to view us with ill intent.

Unlike me, he retains a horse in the stables, a solid, hardy chestnut gelding by the name of Clement - apparently named after the Pope. William has already arranged for me to be reunited with the beast that carried me safely to Shoreditch and back, for which I am very grateful. Eyeing the placid beast with a slightly facetious glint, Cromwell suggests I call it Adrian, after Clement's predecessor.

He mounts easily and quickly, and sighs a little as I am obliged to use the mounting block again. I suspect that, once we stop at the inn Cromwell proposes for our midday meal, I shall almost certainly be expected to submit to a lesson in how to get on, and off, a horse.

Seeing my limitations almost immediately, he does not push our pace, and the horses amble quietly along the rutted track left by the wagons as the first real signs of spring begin to stain the trees about us with newly emerging leaves. Were I more comfortable on horseback, I think it would be a great pleasure to be so peacefully engaged, but my greatest concern, as it was the last time I came this way, is to keep firmly in the saddle and hope that we do not increase speed to a trot.

The swelling on the side of Cromwell's face has gone down now, leaving only the last traces of bruising. Fortunately, the King seems to have forgotten his rage as quickly as he developed it, and shows no interest in the fact that we have not been able to track down the murderer as he demanded. This is, however, equally owing to the fact that there have been no deaths since the awful incident in the Presence Chamber, and so the King's attention has wandered elsewhere.

He remains quiet as we ride, however, and I wonder what he is thinking about. Cromwell has never worn his heart on his sleeve, and his inscrutable nature always used to irk me as I could never read his moods. My speculation is short lived, however, as he chooses to tell me what he is thinking about.

"I am deeply concerned about the Boleyns," He advises, quietly, "Wiltshire is so intent upon his ascendancy that I almost wonder if he still has any love for his children - but George…" he sighs, and I realise that things must clearly be worse with Lord Rochford than they had been when he had first noticed something was wrong.

"He is worse?" I prompt.

Cromwell nods, "Much worse. William has overheard much talk of his increased cruelty to the servants in their apartments. He was once considerate of them - but now he strikes the boys, insults the men and forces his attentions on the women. I was obliged to intervene only two days ago. The chambermaids are refusing to enter the apartments in his presence, as they fear for their safety. I was obliged to secure an agreement that they only be required to work there when he is absent."

"Do you think he will abide by that agreement?"

"At present yes - but if matters continue to deteriorate, I suspect he won't. His expression as I brokered the agreement was indifferent, almost as though he cared nothing for the welfare of those with whom he was once friendly. As the odour of ichor was mixing up with his vetiver scent, he was almost offensive to be near. I cannot blame the chambermaids, for _I_ did not wish to be in his presence." He looks pained for a moment, and I know that there is more - but that he is unsure whether to reveal it. As I am his Second, however, he opts to speak, "Lady Rochford is no better treated," he says quietly, "I am given to understand that their first night together after their marriage was deeply unpleasant."

I stare at him, partly because of the implication of his comment, but mostly because I wonder how on earth he found _that_ out.

"Wyatt." He explains, "I am not his only patron; though George seems to consider him nothing more than a fool these days - when once he sighed for Tom's gift with words, and they shared japes together like schoolboys."

"Do you think it is this Zaebos creature that is responsible for his deterioration?" I ask, unsure whether I hope it is, or that it isn't.

Cromwell shakes his head, "I never speculate. I have found from hard experience that speculation is my worst enemy. Without evidence, I am blind. Thus I intend to stop at Grant's Place tonight, and we shall progress to Placentia on the morrow. Whether there is anything else that we can find about Zaebos - which I think unlikely as your visit was so fruitful - or perhaps another culprit we can determine, I can't say - but speculation is not the answer."

The sun is surprisingly warm, and our cloaks are soon rolled up and stowed behind us on our saddles. By the time it is at its height, we have reached the inn that we were aiming for; and, sure enough, I must dismount without the aid of a block. Fortunately, he has chosen a well concealed spot for me to make a fool of myself, as he swings his right leg over Clement's neck so that he is sitting sideways on his saddle, then drops from there to the ground.

As he did with the bow, he talks me through the sequence of moves. Rather than the ostentatious manner in which he left his saddle, he instead keeps my activity more conventional, and I wobble nervously, my left foot balancing as best it can in the stirrup as I clamber clumsily backwards. I hover for a moment, then allow my leg to bend, and I drop. Before my foot can hit the ground, however, I find that the height of the horse has defeated me, as my knee is now almost at my ear, and I utter a strangled curse at the discomfort. I also topple backwards, and Cromwell has to catch me to stop me falling to the ground.

Rather than give up, which would have been my preferred strategy, he instead cups his hands to use as a boost, and talks me through the process to mount again, as he has a different approach in mind. With his assistance - which appears essential as I am clearly a little short for the distance between stirrup and ground - I am back in the saddle again, but this time he suggests I free both feet from the stirrups, swing my leg back as before, but balance myself over the saddle briefly, then drop. I try this - extremely clumsily - but at least this time I do not need to be grabbed before I end up flat on my back in the grass.

Rather than keep at it, for we are both famished by this time, instead he claps me on the shoulder to celebrate my rather weak success, and we lead the horses to the inn in search of some victuals.

Darkness is falling as we finally reach Grant's Place, and Goodwife Dawson is not pleased to see us, as she has had no warning of our arrival. Loyal though she is to the Chancellor, a loyalty she expresses in almost excessive mothering, she is not above berating him about not letting her know that he would be present. She then goes on to complain that there will not be enough to eat, and that the fare will be too rough for his palate. Still in full flow, she departs into the house as we remove our belongings from the saddles and leave the horses to the care of the manservant who seems to double as a groom before following her.

Despite her tirade, she serves a commendable roasted leg of mutton, as well turned as the one I enjoyed during my last visit with William, with a rather cobbled together sallet and some hastily prepared hippocras, with a little more cinnamon than I would normally like, to wash it down.

Our meal leaves me rather sleepy, but Cromwell has no plans to rest yet. As soon as we have eaten, he is up and heads straight through to the chamber with the secret door, and we are back at work almost at once. He is, however, as tired as I, and we are both yawning mightily over the Index as we interrogate it for any additional clues.

Whether it is our tiredness, or simply that there is nothing to find, our search proves fruitless. If there is a creature that sows discord in humans, Wolsey was not aware of it. There is no reference in the Index that seems to match, and we give up. Better to rest and regroup with Wyatt once we are all at Placentia.

I have no idea if Cromwell has another nightmare this night. I am far too tired to stay awake.

* * *

 I have begun to settle into the quarters assigned to me at Placentia, having been so used to my surroundings at Hampton Court. Cromwell's are vastly improved upon those he had previously - reflecting his new status as Lord Chancellor - and I cannot help but envy him. I probably spend more time looking about the fine rooms than I do assisting him in apprising Wyatt of our discoveries - or rather - _lack_ of them.

As the hour is late, I am thinking about preparing for bed when the knock on the door comes. John, my manservant, opens the door to find Cromwell outside, in his rough black clothing that I already consider to be his 'hunting' outfit - though he seems not to have any weapons about his person. His expression is bleak, and I realise that death must have followed us from Hampton.

"Wyatt found him," Cromwell explains as we hasten through courts that he seems to know as well as those we have left, "He is not within the precincts of the Court, thanks be to God, so we need not advise the King of his passing. Or Norfolk, come to that."

"If he is not within the Palace," I ask, "Why did Wyatt send for you? Surely it is a matter for the Watch?"

"He did not say," Cromwell admits, "but his insistence suggests that it is a matter that only we can handle."

Despite my nerves, I feel a sense of minor pride that he says 'we' instead of 'I'. Given the lateness of the hour, I realise that it will be impossible for us to depart undetected, as the main gates are now closed and guarded. From the amused look that Cromwell directs at me, I realise that he has no intention of using the main gates, and I dread to think where we are to go instead.

As he did at Hampton, Cromwell soon abandons the main routes and leads me back into the warren of passageways that are used by the servants. After a few minutes, he reaches a gateway in a low wall, but does not try it. Instead, he clambers onto a small keg, then uses that elevation to assist him as he scrambles the rest of the way until he is sitting astride the wall. Rather than expect me to follow with the same degree of ease, he waits for me to step onto the keg, and holds his arm out for me to grasp, helping me to join him. I am horribly noisy - making all manner of grunts and shufflings as my shoes scrape the stones of the wall. I am, however, now atop the wall.

The drop on the other side is probably not as far as it appears, and indeed Cromwell merely sits himself sideways as he did when he dismounted his horse, and drops, though when he lands, he bends his knees almost to a crouch to absorb the shock. Taking my nerve in both hands, I do likewise, though my attempt to land gracefully is less successful, and I end up rolling over in a rather ungainly fashion that does, at least, break my fall effectively. Cromwell does not comment, but instead helps me up and bids me follow him.

After a considerable walk, we find Wyatt lurking nervously in the shadows. He looks most relieved to see us, and bids us follow him, "I should warn you," he whispers, "He was killed as the other two were. His throat has been torn out."

I know this is for my benefit, in the hopes that I shall be prepared enough to be able to remain, and not flee to empty my stomach. I fervently hope that the darkness will enable me to do so; I am of little use as a Second if I puke at the first sight of blood and must flee each time I encounter it.

As we round a corner, I see the corpse slumped against a wall a few feet away. Clad in black, the victim appears odd only from the angle of his head, and I am able to steel myself to accept this. As we grow nearer, however, Wyatt sets a restraining hand on Cromwell's arm, "Thomas - you should know - I think he's one of your fellows."

Cromwell turns to him, surprised; rather than comment, however, he hastens forward and pulls the bundled cloak aside to reveal a silver chased scabbard not dissimilar to his own. The other must, presumably be under the body. Then, to my surprise, he utters a rather odd sound, and sinks to his knees. Wyatt and I share a nervous glance - it appears not only that his assessment was right, but - worse - the body is of someone known to Cromwell.

Moving with slow care, he gently removes the weapon, and reaches under the body to retrieve the other. Then, with equal care, he removes the black gauntlets the corpse wears. I lack the courage to approach, but Wyatt does so, crouching beside Cromwell, "Did you know him?"

He nods, "This is 'Hound'. I knew him as Talib - he was the other student that graduated with me. His talent was almost as great as mine, and he was assigned to the court of the Ottomans. He would not have come here had he not had a mission of some importance."

"I think he did," Wyatt murmurs, "I found this about his person." He hands something to Cromwell that I cannot see, but I assume to be a written missive of some sort, "It has your sigil on it. It must be important if a fellow Silver Sword was dispatched to deliver it."

Cromwell does not reply, and remains still for a worryingly long time. Hidden though we are, we cannot remain so forever, and I finally summon the nerve to step forward, "What are we to do? If we remain here, sooner or later the Watch will find us."

It seems to pull him out of his silence, and he looks up, nodding, "We must conceal the body," he says, a little thickly, as though he has swallowed down tears, "Not only to maintain secrecy, but to ensure that he is buried in accordance with the rites of his people. He must be buried before the next sundown after his death."

Decision apparently made, we work together to ensure that the body is wrapped as decently as possible, before Cromwell hefts it over his shoulder, refusing to allow us to assist him. Instead, Wyatt leads us out across the wide rolling park beyond the Palace, and we search for a secluded spot. Before we go far, however, he clambers over a wall into one of the kitchen gardens, and returns with a mattock. I had not thought of such a thing, and I am grateful that he is so thoughtful of practical matters.

We settle in the end upon a small clearing that is concealed behind a bramble thicket in a stand of woodland. The place is boggy and unappealing to visitors, so while it is hardly a fitting resting place for the man who has passed, it will at least preserve his anonymity.

As we only have the one tool, it takes far longer than we would have liked to dig a suitable grave, and the first birds are singing as we finally close the top. Carrying the retrieved swords, Cromwell leads us back to the Palace, his eyes clearly quite glassy with unshed tears. Again, I am struck by how completely he normally conceals his emotions.

Between them Cromwell and Wyatt manage to assist me back over the wall, and we repair to his Chambers to see what message Talib brought. Whether it was the reason for his death, or he was simply an unfortunate, random victim, we cannot possibly know. Perhaps the letter might shed some light.

_Raven_

_The purpose of your dispatch has become clear. The court of Henry is threatened by the greatest demoness known to this earth. Her name is Lamashtu, queen of darkness and answerable to none. As we feared, her plan must be to create chaos in England to create a place of refuge for her dark kind. Little is known of this infernal being other than uncertain rumours. Your Second, however, retains a bestiary of great age which is thought to contain some degree of knowledge._

_Hound, for The High._

"The High?" Wyatt asks, as Cromwell sets the short missive aside with a sigh.

"The Grand Master of the order - he has no sigil, just that term." He translates, "This message is a short one to have been paid for with a life."

"They seem not to have noticed that Wolsey is no longer with us," I add, a little nervously.

Cromwell shakes his head, "They will know. Doubtless they will also know that I have appointed a new one. That letter almost certainly refers to you. The number of Silver Swords may be small, but we make use of a wide ranging network of spies. That was how I was able to make the pretence of undermining Wolsey during the Annulment Affair."

I clearly still have a great deal to learn.

A different sounding bell, to which we are all still unaccustomed, announces that we cannot pretend it is night any longer. Nor that we are not being summoned to work after a night of no sleep. Groaning at the thought, I excuse myself and return to my apartments to change.

The day seems interminable after my white night, and I am deeply grateful when Cromwell excuses us early. The clerks have been no better, as they are still unused to their new quarters, and even Wriothesley seems to be at less than his peak. It is, perhaps, the sombre atmosphere generated by the Lord Chancellor that affects us, as he has said nothing much at all for most of the day, even answering important questions in little more than monosyllables.

I am not sure if he will require company, but I decide there is no harm in offering, and invite him to my apartments to sup, as my manservant has been able to prevail upon the services of a cook with some skill, for a change. To my surprise, he accepts, but after he has stopped at his own in order to abandon the more ostentatious trappings that he is wearing.

When he arrives, he has Wyatt in tow, and our supper quickly becomes more of a business meeting. With so little information, there is not much that can be said about this Lamashtu creature, so we resolve to visit the Library at the earliest opportunity to investigate the bestiary the letter refers to, and turn our thoughts instead to Zaebos.

This soon falters too, as we know only that which we have already found. As Cromwell refuses to speculate, we are left with Wyatt's rather fanciful suggestions; which are helpful only in that they are entertaining - as we are, by now, far too tired to think sensibly. Eventually, we fall silent and start to drowse in our chairs, and we know it's time that we went our separate ways.

The following morning is much better, as I have a full night's sleep to refresh me. The news that greets us in the offices, however, comes as a shock: The Queen has lost her child.

Everyone is dismayed at this; no matter what their view of Queen Anne, to miscarry is a terrible misfortune for her as a bereaved mother. No one shows anything other than shock - not even Daniel - but Peter is clearly distraught. So much so that Cromwell actually takes him aside to talk to him quietly, away from everyone else. No one knows what they discuss, but it seems to ease the boy's anguish, and we are, at last, able to commence work.

As the day wears on, a messenger arrives to advise Cromwell that the King has gone away for a few days, and will be staying at the home of an old friend - a Mr Seymour. While we pay no mind to the suggestion, Cromwell, on the other hand, seems quite pleased at the news, as it offers an opportunity to escape from the Palace to Grant's Place. We may actually have time to hunt down the promised bestiary. Once found, of course, it can be brought back to be studied at leisure, but the difficulties in finding the time to undertake the necessary search are legion when the King is present, particularly as Cromwell wants our help in locating it.

As Norfolk is also away from Court, there is no one to object to his departure, or to blab to the King about it, and we resolve to leave as soon as we can that day. The sooner we go, the sooner we can return - and hopefully we shall not be too badly missed.

Leaving the ever put-upon Wriothesley to oversee the locking up of papers, we collect Wyatt and head to the water gate in search of a wherryman to row us upstream to the Tower. As the tide is flooding, the current is in our favour, so there should be a few wherries amongst the ships moored all about.

We round a corner and, to my disgust, find ourselves face to face with the dreadful Mortimer. He is, as always, richly dressed, and eyes me with malicious amusement, before passing on his way without a backward glance. I am about to make a pithy comment to Cromwell, when I turn in surprise as he staggers and falls against the wall with a sharp intake of breath. Grimacing, he presses his hand to his forehead, and has gone visibly pale, before he speaks, "My apologies - I was caught by surprise. It always feels rather like a nail in the skull." At first, I am confused - and then I understand.

He has sensed the presence of a demon - and there was only one other person present when he did so. That can mean only one thing.

The demon is Mortimer.


	13. The Revelation in the Library

Boarding the wherry is a rather entertaining experience, as Cromwell is still slightly dizzy, and both Wyatt and I have to help him aboard, which earns him a look of scorn from the wherryman. As we cannot discuss the matter in hand in front of the man who is rowing us upstream, instead Wyatt and I discuss Court matters, keeping our talk to the dullest of subjects. Given his propensity for humour, I am astonished at how thoroughly boring Wyatt can be if the need demands, and the discussion becomes almost competitive. I have no doubt at all that the wherryman is most relieved to discharge us at the Tower, by which time Cromwell has recovered fully, and disembarks with far more grace than he displayed on boarding.

With no means of warning ahead, we have no transport from the Tower to Grant's Place and are, therefore, obliged to walk. There are no rookeries nearby, however, and as there are three of us, there is little chance of being waylaid despite the fineness of our dress; though the the implacable expression upon Cromwell's face, coupled with the swiftness of his pace, would be enough to put off any who might consider it worth a try.

The sun is quite warm, despite the earliness of the year, and I am most relieved as we approach the gates of Grant's Place, hoping fervently that some ale might be on hand to quench the thirst that the warmth has inspired, preferably still cool from the cellar. Before I can indulge such hopes, however, we must perforce face another dramatic tirade from Goodwife Dawson for arriving unannounced _again_ , which Cromwell endures with such a meek expression that, no sooner has she bustled back inside than Wyatt falls about laughing at him. As I was on the verge myself, his laughter is infectious, and I cannot help but join in. How strange that - a matter of mere weeks ago - I would have evaded any avoidable contact with either of them.

Once the storm of her anger has passed, Goodwife Dawson provides us all with mugs of ale, and some fresh bread and cheese. To avoid irking her any further, Cromwell advises her that we shall be staying for probably two nights. With adequate warning to prepare rooms and meals, she retreats with grudging acceptance that is probably mostly feigned, and leaves us to our discussions.

"So," Wyatt says, "Not only do we have a feared demoness to deal with, we must defeat a demon in our midst. I would lay good money on the belief that Mortimer is this Zaebos that we have been hunting. He does, after all, look human - but his hideous dress sense would suggest to me that he most certainly is _not._ "

I almost choke on my ale. Leaning over, Wyatt hits me on the back a few times until equilibrium is restored. Even Cromwell is chuckling at his comment, "Ostentatious clothing or not, Tom, I would have to agree with you. I find that, the more powerful the demon, the stronger the pain I feel in my head. It seems that the strength of the ichor they exude is dependent upon how strong they are. Mortimer is strong - not perhaps as strong as the demoness of which we have been warned - but I think his strength exceeds that of a common Revenant. That said, based upon what I was able to glean from the Captain of the Guard when I questioned him after Norfolk so kindly informed the King of that additional body before informing me, there was a witness."

We both stare at him, astonished, "Someone saw?" I repeat, dumbly.

Cromwell frowns, "Both saw - and did not. It was a kitchen boy, going to re-light the ovens for the bakers. He saw someone leaning over the victim - one of the pot-washers - but then that person inexplicably vanished. He did not see where it went - one moment it was there, the next, it was gone." He looks pointedly at Wyatt, "Being a servant of little means, he was not a student of fashion. All he was able to tell was that the perpetrator was a man."

"That narrows it down, then." I mutter.

"Cynic." Wyatt grins.

Our ale finished, there is little reason for us to sit about, and we go through to the chamber where the entrance to the library lies. Pausing only to show Wyatt the latch, Cromwell lets us in. Ignoring the Great Index, he instead fetches over a large coffer with a heavy lid, and sets it on a spare table near the reading desk, "If the information we seek is not listed, and I suspect it is not, as I am uncertain that Wolsey was aware of a creature of this kind, a list of all the scrolls and codices that we hold resides in this coffer. I have never had need to explore it, so I have no idea how the papers are arranged. I think it would be best for us to take this upstairs so that the daylight can assist us - three of us crowded around a single lantern would make for a most uncomfortable search."

"But what of Goodwife Dawson?" I ask, "What would she make of this? Does she also know of your secret?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "She does not. Her work is hard enough without having to guard a deadly secret, and I would not ask it of her. I shall ask her to ensure that we are not disturbed. If she wishes to speak to me, she will knock upon the door, and I shall go and speak to her outside the chamber."

Our worst fears are confirmed as Cromwell opens the coffer in the chamber. The papers within are hopelessly jumbled and confused, with no order or organisation. There are so many individual pages, that we do not have sufficient flat surfaces to house them all, and soon they are being piled up across the floor. As we have no idea whether we are searching for a codex or a scroll, it is impossible to discount anything.

"When I said we should do this more often," Wyatt observes, eyeing the disaster with distaste, "I was in jest."

"Be careful what you wish for." Cromwell advises him, sagely.

"For we _have_ got it." I grumble, "Where on earth do we start?"

There is only one thing that we can do; sit down on the floor with a pile of papers each, and work our way through them. We decide that each page that mentions a bestiary should be laid in the centre of our group, while those that do not are set aside. Fortunately, the writing of Wolsey and the one clerk he entrusted to write such papers is clearly legible, and they were careful to describe each item individually and as fully as possible. It must have taken him years to create - and I almost feel that it will take that long to examine it all.

By the time Goodwife Dawson knocks on the door and advises us that our supper is ready, we have perhaps cleared a third of the papers. A pile of unnerving size sits in the middle of the circle in which we have been sitting, but the leavings are also encouraging in size, as it is clear that the number of bestiaries held downstairs is perhaps more manageable than we had feared. I feel that I had no idea that men were so interested in the world of demons - I have never been before, so it had not occurred to me that anyone else would be.

"Wolsey spent years gathering these," Cromwell admits, when I mention my thought to him, "I think this must be the largest collection of such works outside the Papal Archive. Nothing exceeds that - and it was beyond my reach even before the break with Rome. I suspect, however, that some of the works Wolsey tracked down are unique, and the Vicar of Rome's archivists would all but kill to obtain them."

"Beware, Mr Cromwell," Wyatt remarks, urbanely "Your prejudices are showing."

By the time we have supped, darkness has fallen, and Cromwell decides to suspend our investigations for the evening. Instead, we retire to another chamber, where a fire keeps the evening coolness at bay. For a while, we sit in companionable silence, until Wyatt turns to Cromwell, "Do you still have the swords that belonged to the man we found?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "I had them, and the gauntlets, dispatched back to Padua - to a man who acts as a factor for our Order. He will transfer them back to Milan. All that enters or leaves the College passes through his hands. Another graduate will become Hound; just as, when I meet my end, I would expect my Second to send my swords and gauntlets back so that a graduate will become Raven."

"How many are there?"

I expect him to tell Wyatt not to be so curious, but he answers the question without hesitation, "Not many. I doubt there are more than fifteen of us in active service at any one time. There may be others who can sense ichor, but who remain unfound. Only a Silver Sword, or one of the Masters, would know what the ability meant. The secrecy under which we operate ensures that most are only found by chance, as I was. Even those who _do_ possess the ability may not be suitable simply because they lack the skills that are needed. We must speak at least four languages fluently, master weapons and horsemanship, and develop courtly manners appropriate to men of much higher stations than ourselves."

For the first time, Wyatt is speechless. Instead, he merely blinks. Rather than comment, Cromwell instead turns to me, "Remind me when we return to Placentia to give you the information you need to contact our Factor. I do not intend to die in the immediate future, but should the worst happen, you would not be able to carry out that final duty if you do not have the means to do so."

This time, I am speechless; he speaks of his own death with such matter-of-fact detachment; as though he has considered the thought, and accepted its inevitability with equanimity. I could not do such a thing - what man does not fear his own death?

"Forgive me," Cromwell smiles, "I seem to have killed our conversation."

"Put it out of its misery, more like." Wyatt grins, "Any more, and we should have been blubbering into our kerchiefs like old maids."

* * *

We return to our searches the following morning, again seated on the floor and searching through papers. At length, we are done; though the centre pile now seems discouragingly large. Cromwell splits the pile into three, and we go through them again. This time we set them into two piles, one for scrolls, the other for codexes. Wyatt will hunt out the books, while I secure the scrolls. Cromwell will then, assuming that they are in a language he can read, hunt through them for the information we are seeking.

"Do you think that there may be languages that are beyond us?" Wyatt asks.

"Can you read Greek?" Cromwell counters.

"I can." I advise, "I am perhaps a little out of practice, but not to the point that I would be blind."

Cromwell looks at me with relief, "That is good to hear. I have very little Greek, as our concentration was upon Latin."

"Given sufficient time, I can decipher Hebrew as well." I add, pleased to finally be of real use to our small collective, "Though I cannot vouch entirely for my accuracy."

For the rest of the day, we are thoroughly industrious, collecting scrolls and books, and bringing them up into the light. Cromwell works his way as fast as he can through those texts that are in languages he can decipher. Some are, as he expected, in Greek, and I shall tackle them as soon as I have collected all the scrolls on my list. As most of the list consists of books, I am soon sat alongside him, attempting to scan through the Greek texts as quickly as possible.

We break only briefly to eat, before returning to our task. Each volume we examine promises much, but offers nothing. One contains suggestions of this Lamashtu creature, but nothing more. It does, however, refer to another book - which it calls _Libro Umbrae_ \- and Cromwell sighs. It appears that it is not a Bestiary we are looking for at all.

"It's a Book of Shadows." He says, crossly, "We have been looking for the wrong item all along."

Wyatt and I exchange a tired glance; we will have to go through the entire list _again_. Then Wyatt suddenly snaps his fingers, "I remember it…I saw it on one page and thought it an odd name - almost a ridiculous contrivance; something I should use if I were writing desperately poor doggerel."

"When do you not?" Cromwell retorts, prompting Wyatt to throw a crumpled paper at him before returning to the pile of papers he had accumulated, and riffling through them. Such is his haste that he is obliged to go through the papers twice before finally pulling a page free and waving it jubilantly as he hastens back down into the Library.

"What is a book of shadows?" I ask, uncertain that I shall like the answer.

"It's a book used by witches, Richard," Cromwell explains, "Not all witches are bad - in fact most are not. Some of our greatest allies have practised witchcraft - and one acted as a Second about fifty years ago. All Silver Swords are men, but not all Seconds. We've stepped in more than once to rescue white witches from those who would persecute them. I did it myself while I was abroad for the King during his Great Matter."

Wyatt is gone for some time, but finally returns rather covered in dust. Pausing only to sneeze violently four times, he hands over a book with a large pentagram on its front, "That took a while - it was at the bottom of a coffer at the back of the Library. I don't think the Cardinal knew what it was."

Cromwell grabs the book hastily and begins to leaf through it, then sits back with a relieved sigh, "We have it."

"And just in time for supper." Wyatt grins, then sneezes again.

* * *

After a rather jubilant breakfast, our first task before we can return to the Palace is to collect all the papers back together, and decide what shall come with us, and what shall not. The Book of Shadows is certainly to accompany us, but no other papers seem to come to our attention, so the bulk of the time we spend is dedicated to replacing the items we brought out in the exact places from which they came.

At length, we are done, and with nothing to hold us any longer, we set off at a brisk march to return to the Tower, from where, with luck, the tide should not be too far out of favour, and a wherryman might be prevailed upon to row us back to Placentia.

The Book is well wrapped, as it is something that could put any one of us on the scaffold, should it be spotted. Cromwell has placed it in a large duffel, which he hides under his cloak. He would brook no argument when we offered to carry it for him; though we would all be held guilty if it were found, so the argument seems somewhat pointless to me now.

That sense of camaraderie is back again; having grown at an astonishing pace over the last few days. Whether anyone at court would remark upon it, I have no idea, nor do I care. The enjoyment of sharing such a remarkable secret, and our achievements over the last two days, seem to have quelled my annoyance at becoming involved in the enterprise in the first place.

"Shall you be affected by Mortimer every time you see him?" Wyatt asks Cromwell suddenly, as we approach the walls of the Tower.

He nods, "I shall. It is not a single event - all demons will cause it to strike. As I move in rather different circles to Mortimer, however, I do not consider it to be overly problematic. Besides, I am aware of him now, so I am more able to avoid the problem."

The tide is wrong for our return journey, but one of the Wherrymen confirms that it will turn in an hour or so, and agrees to wait for us as we repair to a tavern of fair reputation that is quite popular with the upper servants of the nearby Palaces and Riverside houses. As none of us are wearing anything ostentatious to give away our rank, as these will be donned again as we travel downriver later on, few pay us any mind. Our conversation is, perforce, neutral as there are too many people around to risk discussing business - of either kind.

The journey back to Placentia is also quiet, as we do not wish to alert the Wherryman to our doings. Cromwell and I have reassumed our chains of office, and he knows that we are important Palace folk - but no more. As most use wherries to travel between the Palaces, if they do not have access to the official barges, he does not remark at our garb or station. He regards Cromwell's official chain with wide eyes - few have ever laid eyes upon the Lord Chancellor, and would not know him if he passed them in the street, the sight of the chain is a recognisable symbol, and he knows that his passenger has important access to the King. Certainly not someone he would normally transport in his boat. His eyes widen even further at the size of the tip that Cromwell pays him when we arrive.

We have little option other than to return to the offices, as there is no saying what might have arrived in our absence. The inestimable Wriothesley has, naturally, kept such items to a minimum; but there are still matters that can only be handled by the Solicitor General, or the Lord Chancellor, and it is these that must be tackled before we can safely interrogate the Book. Therefore we agree to meet later in Cromwell's apartments for supper, and Wyatt departs to seek gossip.

I am relieved to discover that nothing has piled up for me, and I can pick up very much where I left off. Cromwell, on the other hand, sits down with Wriothesley to discuss matters that have arisen since his departure, and they spend some time talking. I have no idea what they discuss, as I am far too far away to overhear; but I know that anything important will be raised at supper, so I pay it no mind.

When we convene later, Wyatt has some news about George Boleyn that none of us wanted to hear. In complete defiance of his agreement, so carefully brokered, he entered his apartments while a chambermaid was working, and forced himself upon her. Wiltshire has taken immediate steps to cover up the incident, but George was never a discreet individual, even before the hideous change that has overcome him, and he was quite happy to relate it to Wyatt, who is clearly disgusted at such behaviour.

"He referred to it as an 'escapade'," he mutters, revolted, "the poor girl was not only violated, but badly beaten. Wiltshire has had to spend a considerable sum to keep it quiet. She has been dispatched from the Court."

I shake my head, feeling much the same as Wyatt, "And they call men of that standing 'Gentlemen'."

"And there is the irony." Wyatt agrees, "Is it not what we do that makes us gentlemen, rather than how we are born?"

Cromwell makes no comment, but his expression shows his agreement. He is, after all, the lowest born of our small party - not one of the grand Councillors would ever consider it right to call him a Gentleman. Yet he would never, at any time, treat a servant so. None of us would.

Our mood is sombre as William sets out a baked ham and a grand sallet accompanied by both spiced frumenty and the best manchet bread, before pouring us cups of claret. The continual deterioration of George Boleyn's behaviour is worrying, and none of us can begin to guess how to stem it. Even Wiltshire seems to be unable to control him now.

"The problem is Wiltshire's," Cromwell eventually declares, as we seat ourselves to sup, "We have other matters to attend to - and if we can solve them, perhaps we might yet retrieve him from this decline."

We opt not to touch the book until we have eaten and had time to wash our hands. It looks to be of a great age and, consequently, delicate. Before long, we have put aside concerns about Lord Rochford, and our conversation is altogether more genial. The discovery that William has managed to steal some gingered bread from a batch destined for the Hall is most welcome, and we are all rather greedy with it, rarely seeing something so costly to prepare on our considerably more modest tables.

Supper done, we repair to the fireside, and Cromwell begins his careful search through the book. As my grasp of Latin is not as good as it should be, and Wyatt's is weaker still, we are reliant upon him to translate the words within. Fortunately, he translates aloud, so we are not obliged to wait for him to finish.

"Lamashtu is, as we were advised, a demoness," he begins, "but she is also a demigod in the belief system of her people. The ancients called them the Akkadians."

We look at him, nervously, as he is talking of things that are far outside that in which we believe. He ignores us, and continues, "She acts with malice of her own accord, not in obedience to any other, and answers to none. She desires chaos and disorder, which enable her to bring about death and destruction at leisure, and delights in killing, suffering and sickness. Her other favoured pastime is to…" His voice trails off, and his eyes widen.

"What?" Wyatt prompts.

Cromwell looks up at us, "Her other favoured pastime is to slaughter children - even unborn."

We both appreciate the significance of this. Had not the King's first marriage faltered over the failure of the Princess's pregnancies? Worse, had not Queen Anne only recently lost a babe from her womb too? I am the first to put our thoughts into words, "She is attempting to interrupt the succession…"

"Why would she do that?" Wyatt asks, bemused, "In what way can she possibly benefit from such an act?"

Cromwell is reading again, "She seeks disorder, as this is most suitable for her purposes. War, pestilence or famine are all of benefit to her desires. Her greatest preference, however, is for war; the most destructive of all forms of human strife."

"Do we know how long she has been here?" I ask, suddenly, a nervous thought forming at the back of my mind.

"You are thinking that she came here during the Anarchy, or perhaps the Cousin's War?" Cromwell prompts, clearly thinking as I am. We have emerged from such a long period of conflict that it seems as though our little island has fitted Lamashtu's needs very well. Not only have we been at almost endless war, but she has been free to act at will throughout. It is only now, with the ending of the Cousin's War by the King's father, that we have anything approaching peace.

"So, if she can disrupt the Queen's pregnancies, there is no son to follow the King's Majesty," Wyatt adds, "and thus we would be thrown back into war again as those who are at the highest state vie to take the throne."

"And she would be free to act again. Perhaps even to bring about the catastrophe of which I was warned by the Cardinal." Cromwell muses, which surprises us - as he had not mentioned such a thing before. Seeing our bemused faces, he continues, "Before he fell, Wolsey wrote me a letter ordering me to abandon him - as I think I have already told you Richard, but not you, Tom - but he also stated that there were concerns in some quarters that infernal forces wished to make England their home, as an island fortress from which they could launch a great cataclysm upon all of mankind. It was for that purpose that I was - he told me - dispatched to England."

"You are expected to prevent all of that - on your _own_?" Wyatt stares, in disbelief, "How could they assume something so enormous could be placed upon a single pair of shoulders?"

"It is not so difficult as it sounds," Cromwell explains, "Cut off the head, and the body withers. If we dispatch Lamashtu, then what will become of her plans? It hinges merely upon one act."

"Perhaps," I concur, "but how is it to be achieved? Can she be dispatched?"

Cromwell returns to the entry, then sighs, "It doesn't say. But I cannot believe that silver would not be sufficient to cleave her head from her body. I have ever found that to be the most effective method _in extremis_."

"I think, though," Wyatt adds, "If she is as important as this description suggests, we would be safe to presume that Zaebos is subservient to her. He may even be acting on her behalf."

Cromwell nods, "I concur. As you have the greatest freedom of movement about the court, Tom, I would suggest that you watch him carefully. If we can determine definitively that he is indeed working with this demoness, then we can trace her and destroy her."

Wyatt nods, cheerfully, "I always appreciate a challenge, my Lord Chancellor," he grins, "I shall rest well tonight, and commence my hunt on the morrow. Good night, Gentlemen." With that, he bows ridiculously floridly, and departs.

"He is a complete fool at times." I observe, "I am astonished no one has yet seen fit to strike him for his foolery."

"Fool he may be, when it suits him to be so," Cromwell smiles, "But he is a highly effective one. There is no other that I would trust with this task."

"How could Mortimer miss him?" I ask, "He is one of the tallest men at Court!"

"Hence the hare-brained fool. It is nothing more than an act - a part that he plays. There is a highly capable mind inside that poet - when he isn't mooning hopelessly over his foolish calf-love for the Queen." He finishes, a little dryly.

A thought strikes me, "Tell me honestly, Thomas - is there anything between them? If there is, then he could find himself in great peril - you know that."

"I do." He agrees, "They were friends some years ago when she still resided at Hever. There were never any rumours at the time of untoward behaviour - Boleyn kept a tight rein on his daughters, particularly after the scandal that the elder ignited while at the French court. He had no intention of retaining _two_ tainted maids. Not if there might be the opportunity to gain from them if they caught the eye of the King."

"Is he truly so mercenary?"

Cromwell looks me dead in the eyes, "Yes. He is."

"But might it not be an infernal influence? Surely he could not have planned this when they were but children?"

He sighs, "Perhaps. I cannot believe there was not at time when he loved his brood - but that has long since been swallowed up in his desire for land and power. He, too, has become worse as time has passed, so I think that you are almost certainly right. I would be hard put to find evidence to disagree with…"

He gets no further; the door to his apartments suddenly flies open, swinging right round to hit a sideboard with a dreadful crash that makes us both turn in shock. Wyatt is standing in the doorway, "My God - another one! Mortimer! I saw him! I saw him _move_!" he is out of breath, and the words come out in sharp exhalations.

"What do you mean?" Cromwell is quickly beside him and guiding him back to a chair, while William hastens to a nearby pitcher to pour out some of the last of the hippocras with which we finished our supper.

Wyatt gulps at the wine gratefully, "Did you not say that the witness told that the creature was there in one moment, but was gone in the next? I came upon a shadowy figure - in the very act of killing…" he pauses, pulling a face, "It did not see me, but as I watched, it rose, then seemed to leap forward five paces, then again, and then again. Then it was gone. But in the time that it was still, I saw it was Mortimer. He _is_ Zaebos!"

Rather than stay where we are, Cromwell is quickly gathering up his simarre, "Come, Tom - take us to the corpse. We must secure the scene before any others come upon it."

I have no desire to attend such a sight, not after the large amount of sweet gingered bread I have consumed. I already feel slightly sick from overindulgence as it is; but there is no choice. They are going, and so must I. Already, I try as best I can to force myself to be ready for the sight, as we hasten through the passageways to where the body lies. As we come upon it, to Cromwell's obvious relief, no others have been by.

He looks over the body, and nods, "Ichor."

As we can smell nothing but that strange, iron-rich odour of blood, we must take his word for it. I am surprised to discover I can think this and not need to run in search of a nearby drain.

"I cannot identify the individual," Cromwell calls across to us, "Tom - is he familiar to you? He is not wearing anything to identify his employment or his status."

I steel myself, and force myself to step forward to view the remains. As it is very dark, the blood is not too obvious, and I am able to swallow down any incipient nausea. The victim looks unusually aged for the Court, at least for those who serve in the Palace. He must be approaching his three-score years; so why him? All the others have been young…

"This is most strange," Cromwell continues, "The other victims have been Palace servants, and they have all been young - why take someone so old? It is not the preference of Revenants to do so, for their blood is less fresh."

I feel quite pleased that we are thinking along the same lines, "Perhaps he came upon Zaebos in the midst of some other activity?" I venture.

A movement catches my eye, and I turn to see one of the bakery boys standing nearby, his face white at the sight of us. Almost reflexively, I call out to him, "Fetch the Captain of the Guard, boy - quickly!" There is no point in concealment now - we have no option other than to make the death official. We still, however, have some time to view the scene before we are joined by the guards, and Wyatt stops suddenly a few feet from the corpse, and crouches to the ground, "Thomas - look at this."

Leaving the remains to themselves, we join him. At our feet is a strange design scrawled upon the cobbles in white chalk that seems to resemble some sort of chimaera - a mixture of animals that make little sense. Already Wyatt has a piece of paper out, and a stub of charcoal that he has wrapped in paper to protect the inside of his scrip. With swift, easy strokes of the charcoal, he traces a fair copy of the design onto the paper, before we all turn to greet the hastily arriving Captain, still adjusting his bonnet as he approaches. Dismayed at yet another murder, he does not see the strange design chalked upon the floor. Not wishing to cause even more worry, Cromwell carefully stands on it, and surreptitiously shuffles his foot over it until is is largely erased.

With the Captain in charge, we are able to retire back to Cromwell's apartments, and I foresee another white night ahead. With the odd sigil, and Wyatt's strange report of movement by Zaebos, now that we are satisfied that Mortimer and he are one and the same, we have more to discuss.

Unfolding the sketch, Wyatt smooths it out over the table, and we examine the symbols. They make little sense, as many of them may well be symbolic rather than actual shapes - but I realise that I am the only one who is bemused by them, as Wyatt and Cromwell are already pointing at different strokes and suggesting possibilities: a cat's head - no, a lioness…why such long ears? A donkey, or a mule? Talons for feet - a crudely drawn pig, a dog, and wiggling lines that Wyatt suggests are probably snakes. As I try to make out the features they have described, Cromwell is searching the pages of the Book of Shadows again. Finally, he stops, and says, "Here it is." Before holding out the book to Wyatt, who nods, and shows Cromwell's discovery to me.

My Latin is utterly execrable, but even I am able to work out the words in the text, which describes how the people who feared her described her form. The chimaera is purely representative, yes - but it represents what was thought to be her 'true' form. I cannot begin to imagine how such a bizarre combination of animals could create something so fearsome as a bringer of chaos.

"Do you think she would actually look like this?" Wyatt asks, putting my thoughts into words.

Cromwell shakes his head, "I would be most surprised if she did," He admits, "Most of the agents of darkness I have encountered hold at least a vaguely human shape. The Ancients appear to have created monsters for themselves that vastly outstrip the actual appearance of those monsters. Perhaps they derived an illicit thrill from scaring themselves." Then he looks up at Wyatt, "Describe to me again how you saw Zaebos move, Tom. I feel as though I remember something that I was once told by Wolsey about demons and their abilities."

Rather than simply describe, Wyatt attempts to demonstrate, "It was like this," he says, standing beside the fire and bending slightly, "He was like this - as I'm standing now. Then, he was five paces away - but only for an instant," here he quickly steps those paces, "then five paces further on, and again, until he was gone." Again, he steps the five paces, and another five, "Imagine that you did not see me perform the steps, but instead he was from one spot to the next and to the next in a series of instants."

Cromwell nods, and turns to one of the sideboards, into which he burrows with some haste. Eventually, he finds a small leather wallet of papers, and hunts through these before revealing his find - a page of rough paper. He quickly reads it, then nods, "I was right. Wolsey wrote of this. He said that some demons possess the ability to compress a period of moments in time - to make them effectively vanish so that, although they move, they do so unseen. It is, apparently, impossible for any mortal to see them do this."

"Yet I can?" Wyatt asks, a little nervously, "Am I not mortal?"

Cromwell laughs at this comment, but not unkindly, "Of course you are, Tom. I have no doubt that there are some who have the ability to see demons move, just as there are some who have the ability to sense ichor. It may be something to do with your artistic eye." He replaces the paper, and looks altogether more businesslike, "If you can see Zaebos on the move, then we are in with a chance to find Lamashtu. The symbol he was drawing suggests an attempt at an invocation - a means to communicate with her over a long distance. If we can follow him, he may well lead us to her."

I blanch at this, "And then what?" I ask, nervously, "We have no clues as to how to fight her - we would be all but helpless if she is able to resist us!"

Cromwell shakes his head, "I have never encountered anything that was not destroyed by silver. We have the blades, and I have silvered bolts for the crossbow. If we can find her, then we can destroy her. Without that influence, Zaebos may be more straightforward to tackle. I have no doubts whatsoever that we can destroy him."

"Did not the Book of Shadows say that she was considered a demigod? Is that not more than a mere demon? Thomas - we should not approach this so blind!" I try again, why can he not see it? There is so little truly helpful information in that Book…

"I have spent ten years at this fight, Richard," He says, calmly in the face of my fears, "Wolsey prepared for his role for longer still. We have the information we need - and I have the swords. She will fall - I have no doubt of it."

"But _I_ do!" I almost shout back, "What is my purpose if not to advise you? And if I do, what is the point of my doing so if you merely ignore me?"

Wyatt is looking visibly embarrassed, and he is clearly trying to find an excuse to leave; but I cannot help myself. After all that I have thought about Cromwell not being the man I thought he was; when it comes to the hunt, he does not trust my judgement, and I cannot help but despise him for that, "If you are not willing to trust me, then why did you ask me to do this? Was it merely to grind my nose into the ground and display your superiority? If so, then I am truly a fool, am I not? Well, then, feel free to dispatch this demon, since it is clear that you no longer need my assistance!" furious, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the apartments. As I go, I feel a sense of dread that there might be running footsteps behind me, as I am in no mood for conciliation. But, as I draw further away, I feel a sense of sad disappointment that there are not, and I cannot help but wonder if, in a fit of wounded pique, I have shut that door behind me for good.


	14. The Shocking Beauty

 

I feel most uncomfortable entering the offices the next morning. I have slept very badly, and the one person I do not wish to speak to is Cromwell. Fortunately, when I arrive, he is not present - already meeting with the King and the Council. Wriothesley advises that he is expected to be absent for most of the day, much to my relief. The clerks have been looking at us oddly for some time given the unexpected thaw in our dealings with one another, and I do not wish to offer them more cause to speculate at our strange behaviour, given that it is likely that the thaw has hardened again.

I know that I am right - I _know_ it. We are not prepared to face Lamashtu with so little knowledge of her powers or her plans. The fact that Cromwell does not agree with me, purely on the grounds that I do not know this world enough yet, is surprisingly hurtful - as, to me, it is not a matter of experience - it is a matter of plain common sense. While the sense of fury I felt has subsided, it has been replaced by a sense of almost sullen rejection, and I wonder if I shall be able to bring myself to speak to Cromwell when he returns from his duties elsewhere.

Pushing my wounded feelings to one side I settle down to work, and I am quickly absorbed in some intricate legal papers. So entirely do they occupy my attention that I am unaware of anything around me for a considerable time, and I do not notice that Cromwell has returned unexpectedly, and is now busy at his desk. As there is no pressing need for me to approach him, I opt not to; we are so engrossed with our respective workloads that no one remarks that we have not communicated at any point during the day.

Darkness is falling as I finally set aside the last of my papers. Most of the clerks have been dismissed for the day, and only Peter remains, lighting candles all about while Wriothesley and Cromwell are both still hunched over their desks. Then, with a badly stifled yawn, Wriothesley sighs with obvious relief, sets aside a paper, drops his quill into a pot and pushes back his chair to depart. He nods to Peter, who also looks quite relieved to be dismissed, and the two leave us alone.

I am at a loss for something to say. Since my angry departure last night, we have not spoken, and I am not sure how to raise the matter. Instead, I stand dumbly in the middle of the office while Cromwell continues to scratch away with his quill as though he is alone.

"Are you going to stand there, or come over here?" he asks, eventually, his eyes on the paper as he continues to write. There is no edge of temper that I can detect in his voice, so I decide not to turn and go, but instead approach the desk and take a seat opposite him. I cannot hide a rather reproachful expression, however, which he notices as he finishes the paper he has been writing, and finally looks up at me.

"I wondered whether to follow you last night," he admits after a few minutes of slightly awkward silence, "Tom advised against it. You were rather angry, and he claimed it is never wise to interrupt someone when they are, as he put it 'storming off'."

"Do you not see why I was irked?" I ask.

"I do, Richard; I do. But what else can we do but fight? She is a dark being, and I am tasked to defend against such creatures."

"But we are blind!" I try again, "Please, Thomas - please see it from my point of view. We are facing something unknown - even to you. I know that I have spent but a few weeks in this world that you have known for ten years or more; but even _with_ experience, I would not consider it remotely sensible to commence an attack on something without knowing more about its defences. We do not even know the location of her lair."

At first, I assume he will dismiss my fears, but instead he sits back and considers my words, then nods, "In that respect, Richard, you are correct - and I should be less keen to reach for my weapons. We will not be able to fight one that we cannot find, after all." Then he leans forward again, his elbows on the desk, "But fight her we must - all of us. If you feel unable to fight her with weapons, then you are the one who will fight her with knowledge. I realised that you would be an admirable Second long before you came to my aid after I was wounded - but you must also realise that you still have much to learn, and I wish that you had the time to learn it as Wolsey did; but matters have forced our hands. He had prepared for my arrival before I had even entered the College. He was mentored by a Second who was in communication with the White Witch I mentioned - the one who had been a Second herself. She knew that this trial was approaching; and wanted to be certain that the Silver Sword who would face it would do so with the most highly trained and prepared Second the Order had ever seen."

"And then Wolsey fell." I murmur, wondering at the cruel vagaries of fate.

Cromwell nods, "And now you must face this trial alongside me without the preparation that Wolsey received. It is a hard task I have placed upon you, and I can only ask that you forgive me for it. I am certain that have chosen wisely in asking you to assist me - but there is so much that you still are yet to discover; things that Wolsey already knew. It is not because I do not trust you - it is simply that my experience is greater, and I am perhaps more able to judge the risks that I face. As you learn more, that will begin to change."

As he speaks, I see it again; that awful loneliness. He needs to have a Second - not merely to assist him, but also to be someone in whom he can confide. I sit back, "I cannot change my view, Thomas - but I will not stand aside and leave you to face this tribulation alone. I shall do all I can to discover more about this creature - while Tom gathers more intelligence for us in relation to Zaebos. I think at this time, we must set ourselves more urgently to curtailing his behaviour at Court - for each death that occurs, we are more beset by demands from the King. Demands that disrupt the work we are trying so hard to do."

Cromwell smiles, "That, my dear Mr Rich, is as things always are."

We both look up at the sound of footsteps, to see Wyatt, who looks very pleased with himself, "I think you may be correct in your assessment of that sigil, Thomas," He advises, "The abominable Mr Mortimer's inability to conceal himself from me has granted me access to his most private activities."

" _Most_ private?" Cromwell asks, an eyebrow sardonically raised.

Wyatt chooses to ignore him, "I spent much of last night following him as best I could; and eventually came upon him drawing another of those sigils. I took much more care to hide than the poor man he murdered, and was able to witness his activities."

"What did he do?" I ask.

"Spoke some words that I could not hope to repeat if you asked me to, as I did not understand them; then a ghostly face appeared above the sigil - a most extraordinarily beautiful woman. He bowed before her, and they conversed. I was, alas, unable to hear their conversation as they spoke in low voices - and I didn't dare attempt to get closer, for fear of discovery."

Cromwell looks rather disappointed, "Would it be worth making another attempt tomorrow night to see if he returns to the same point?"

"Possibly," Wyatt looks unsure, "I cannot be certain at this point whether he intends to use the same place again, or whether he will move. Give me two more nights and I may be better able to advise you."

Cromwell nods, "Very well, but for God's sake, don't let him see you."

"See me? _See me?_ " Wyatt looks scandalised, "Mr Cromwell - you should be ashamed of yourself! See me indeed!" Grinning cheerfully, he turns and walks out.

* * *

We are supping together again, though I have opted to host proceedings on this occasion. As agreed, two nights have passed, and we await Wyatt's report. As I have access to a far better cook than I did at Hampton, I am not embarrassed by the the fare that John has set out for us, in the form of a steaming hot game pasty, roasted artichokes and frumenty. As my purse does not permit me to place claret upon the table, John has instead managed to secure a light mead and some perry.

My quarters are considerably smaller than Cromwell's but not impossibly so. As John is not a part of our band, I ask him to leave us undisturbed until I call for him, and we allow him time to depart before we begin to discuss the matter at hand.

"Well?" I ask Wyatt as he helps himself to a piece of the pasty. He says nothing - but instead stabs a chunk of venison with his knife and pops it into his mouth, chewing expansively.

"Tom." Cromwell warns, "Not tonight."

Wyatt swallows the mouthful and looks outrageously contrite, "Forgive me, Gentlemen; I am in a celebratory mood."

"So Zaebos has returned to the same place to confer with Lamashtu?" I ask.

"On both occasions." He confirms, "I remained well hidden - so again, I did not hear what they discussed. He did not attend the spot at the same time each night, however, the first, he arrived as the clocks struck a quarter past the hour of eleven, while on the second I was obliged to remain in hiding for nearly another three hours later than that."

Cromwell nods, relieved, "I am pleased to hear that. Had he been regular, I might have been concerned that he knew of your presence. As he did not, perhaps we may find ourselves equally fortunate tonight. Were there any places nearer to his position?"

Wyatt shakes his head, "Had there been, I would have used one. I could not create something that would serve the purpose, as he would have seen it."

'Rest yourself tonight, Tom. I need you to be fully alert. Richard and I shall make the rounds instead."

I am not sure whether to be pleased or horrified that he has chosen to include me in his hunt, and I take a rather larger gulp of perry than I intended, almost choking myself.

"You are required to attend this hunt, Mr Rich," Wyatt intones gravely, "Attempting to choke yourself to death is not an excuse."

This time I throw my napkin at him.

Cromwell and I meet again in one of the lesser courts as the clock strikes nine. He is, as I expected, in his hunting garb again, while I have done the best I can to match him with black garments of my own. I cannot shake the feeling that I am being included for the purposes of learning again, but as I need to learn, this does not concern me unduly.

He has not brought his swords with him, instead relying on a long, dangerous looking poniard that rests at his hip beneath his cloak. As always, I am unarmed; but as he can fight well enough for both of us, I prefer to leave any potential fisticuffs to him. Keeping close behind, I follow him down another unregarded passageway, realising that I should make time to learn my own routes as soon as possible. Again, he is quick to see guards, and to hide from them, and we remain undiscovered.

The location that Wyatt described is indeed difficult to approach - which is clearly why Zaebos has selected it. Isolated, unused at night, the court is surrounded by stores and offices of the minor departments that we oversee only lightly, and there is not a soul to be seen. There is, however, the faint tracing of the sigil on the cobbles in the centre of the court. Standing beside it, Cromwell looks about, and then crosses to a drainpipe. Uncertain of his intentions, I follow, only for him to remove his boots and hand them to me, before quickly and deftly scrambling up to a low roof with suitably high gables. In a moment, he is over them, before hastily leaning back over and pointing me in the direction of the hiding place that Wyatt used. It is, as Wyatt advised, too far away to be certain of overhearing anything - but Cromwell is perched almost above the spot - and maybe he might discover something.

With no idea of how long we must wait, we remain still in our separate hiding places. It had never occurred to Wyatt to climb up on to that roof, any more than I might have considered it, and certainly the ease with which Cromwell scaled the wall is remarkable. He would make a brilliant burglar if ever the King opted to dispense with his services.

We are fortunate tonight, for Zaebos arrives with commendable haste. Retracing the sigil, which has worn slightly, he kneels and intones a startlingly loud chant in a language that is unintelligible to me - though the very sound of the words are sufficient to chill my blood. I freeze as still as I can, even though I am well away from his field of vision, and wait to see what will follow.

It begins as a tiny spot of light that spits and sputters for a few moments, before suddenly expanding into a globe of white. After a few moments more, the light begins to fade a little, and - as Wyatt reported - the head and shoulders of a woman are visible - lit all about by the light of the invocation.

I do not dare to move, but this does not prevent me from seeing. She is, as we were told, luminously beautiful: fair skinned, with piercing eyes that I am too far away from to determine their colour. Everything about her seems almost carried to some extreme or another - to the point of being almost a fairy creature from some folk tale. I can only imagine that her hair is probably black as night - or maybe fair as the morning sun - as it is coiffed beneath an English hood and impossible to see. Her cheekbones are high, and her lips extraordinarily red. For a disguise, it seems odd to me that she should make herself so resolutely, almost aggressively, attractive. It would be impossible to remain hidden if she came to court - every red blooded courtier would be trying to woo her. Even I might have tried were I not overshadowed by the young bloods that stalk the corridors.

At length, their discussion is at an end. Zaebos makes an obscure gesture in the air, not quite a genuflection, and the woman is gone. Rising, he departs.

I know better than to emerge too soon, and remain still until Cromwell raises his head over the gables again. I approach him as he reaches the ground, and hand him back his boots, "Did you hear anything?" I keep my voice a low whisper.

"Little of consequence," he admits, pulling up the second boot, "perhaps that is just as well. Had they spoken extensively of plans, I should have feared that our observation had been discovered. I did gain one piece of information - Lamashtu is posing as the Lady Isabella Sofre." He shrugs, as he has no idea who such a person might be.

"Sofre?" For some reason, it springs a memory in me, and I think for a moment, "I remember seeing it; on some legal documents," then I turn, and grab Cromwell's arm, " _property deeds_."

"Are you sure?" he looks more hopeful now; we might have some proper evidence.

I suddenly feel a strong urge to go and seek the documents I recall - but Cromwell shakes his head, "Not now. Wait until the morning. It would be most odd for us to be in the offices at this hour. You were only present when I needed your aid because you had fallen asleep over your papers. We were both seen to leave this evening, so to return there now would look out of place."

He is, of course, correct. My sigh of disappointment becomes a yawn, and we agree to reconvene in the offices on the morrow. As we depart, the clocks strike one, and I amend my thought. Later today.

Wriothesley's efficiency, coupled with the extensive archiving system that he and Cromwell have devised - albeit based on Wolsey's extraordinarily organised systems, provides me with the papers I require in less than two hours. Despite being tired from our nighttime excursion, it takes me little time to find that which I seek, and I call Cromwell over to my desk. Rather than tell him, I point at the words _The Old Priory of the Benedictines, Richmond Park_. As the ruins are within the bounds of a Royal Park, we would, naturally, be interested to note who lives in them, so we hold a copy of the deeds. Sure enough, the name Isabella Sofre is listed. We have found the demon's lair. Unfortunately, we have done so just at the point after we have left the most convenient palace from which to approach her, and we are now at completely the wrong end of London - and are unlikely to return to Hampton Court for half a year at least if the King opts to transfer to Whitehall or Westminster after we must abandon Placentia.

Our afternoon's toil is interrupted by a hastily dispatched messenger, who asks Cromwell to attend to the King. Assuming that he is to receive another angry tirade for yet another body turning up, I decide to accompany him as far as I am able - but it turns out that we have assumed incorrectly. Instead, matters seem to be about to play into our hands.

The discovery that I have come too, rather than irritating the King, instead pleases him, as it means he will not have to send another messenger to fetch me. Apparently, I was supposed to come too. As I have done so independently, the unfortunate boy who forgot to ask for me avoids a cuff over the head, though he is called several unsavoury names before he hastily leaves.

His Majesty hands a document to Cromwell, who reads it quickly. His eyebrows raise sharply at the end of it, and he then hands the paper on to me. From it, I discover that the clearance at Hampton Court has revealed extensive damp in one corner of the Great Hall, and a considerable sum of money will be required to rectify it.

"I refuse to believe that they could require such a fortune to mend a wall." Henry snaps, crossly, "You are to go to Hampton, Cromwell - take Rich with you. Assess everything they demand to do. You have two weeks to make a report on their activities. If they are asking for too much, advise me and then beat them down as far as you can, d'you hear?"

Cromwell bows formally, "Yes, Majesty." I bow too, grateful for the opportunity to conceal the glee that is threatening to show on my face. How could we possibly be so lucky? Now we have the chance we need to investigate Lamashtu - perhaps we can then uncover some means of destroying her.

We return to the offices at a brisk march, and Cromwell dispatches Peter to seek out Wyatt with a request to join us for supper. Turning to Wriothesley, he advises of the King's orders, and grants his chief Clerk the authority to act in his absence should anything arise.

He remains working at his desk until everyone has departed for the day. It is only then that I realise that he does not intend to investigate. Opening the locked cupboard, he retrieves his swords, the crossbow, a handful of silver-tipped bolts and a number of knives, which he carefully sets on his desk. Does he truly intend to carry all of that from here to his apartments?

William arrives, carrying a large, decorative box, as it seems that Peter was asked to call him on his way to his own quarters. Without so much as raising an eyebrow, Cromwell's ever patient manservant busies himself packing the weapons into the box - apart from the crossbow - and then leaves with them. Shrugging out of his simarre, Cromwell carefully sets the strap of the crossbow about himself, and then replaces the outer garment to conceal the weapon. It is small enough to be hidden, and I am less nervous than I might have been had he seriously threatened to carry it openly.

Once we are safely back in the apartments, I turn to him, "Please tell me these are a precaution only, Thomas. I still feel that we are not ready to confront Lamashtu."

He sighs, "Perhaps we are not - but if the opportunity arises, I cannot risk letting it slip by. She is unaware that we have discovered her, and that may be our only advantage."

"At least allow me to investigate more deeply. I have the deeds with me, we can review the plans when we arrive at Hampton."

He nods, then looks up as Wyatt arrives, "Tom, make sure that you are packed for a fortnight's stay at Hampton. We are departing on the morrow on the King's business. I would find your assistance invaluable."

Wyatt stands in the doorway, "What - no food?"

* * *

It takes us most of the day to get from Placentia to Hampton, as we are obliged to travel on horseback, with a cart following behind us carrying what we need for our stay. In deference to our status, the King has sent an escort, which is most annoying, as we cannot discuss the matter in hand. Instead, Cromwell and Wyatt take turns assisting me with improving my riding technique, and before long I feel brave enough for us to proceed at a trot for a short while.

I have never been in a palace during its 'Sweetening', and the number of people present is astonishing. One of the stewards has already prepared chambers for us - not particularly well appointed, but adequate, and a cook has been assigned to service our need for sustenance. The guards join their colleagues already present, and we can, at last, get down to business.

As I had hoped, the packet of deeds contains a roughly drawn map, showing the location of the priory. It appears to have been triangulated reasonably efficiently, and gives us an idea of how far we must travel. Further investigation reveals some crude plans and drawings, which reveal that much of the priory is in ruins, but the core of it is not only habitable, but well appointed. The remaining buildings surround a large court that would almost certainly be either cobbled or flagged. The interiors, however, are less well covered and we have no idea what might lie within those walls.

"When do we depart?" Wyatt asks, all eagerness.

"Tomorrow morning." Cromwell says, firmly, "We go in daylight, and we do so with great care. I shall require you to do something for me, however; you shouldn't join us at the priory."

Wyatt looks as though he is about to protest, but Cromwell shakes his head, "Trust me, Tom. I wouldn't ask this if it wasn't essential. I need to have some measure in place if we are to carry out the plan of attack I have in mind."

"We are not ready, Thomas," I protest, again, "What if she is able to resist you?"

I fear at first that he might consider this to be something of an insult, but he does not seem annoyed at my words. Instead, he sighs, "It is a risk I must take, Richard. If we can pluck this bud before it flowers, then it shall solve more problems than we can count. The Queen will be able to carry a child to term, Zaebos will be much reduced in power, and we may avert the threat Lamashtu poses to the safety of this Kingdom before she can put any plan into motion. We have to try."

"And if we fail?" I cannot stop myself.

"Then we try again." Cromwell insists, "Or another Silver Sword will be dispatched to your side."

"At least let us explore first," I plead, a little desperately, "we are not in any position to start again if this fails and you are lost - you have to see that! If nothing else, how do we explain to the King that you died at Richmond when you should have been at Hampton Court?"

I expect him to become angry - but he does not. Instead, he rests his hand on my shoulder, "I cannot let this opportunity pass, Richard. Believe me, I do see your point of view. Not one of us takes up the gauntlets in the belief that they shall live a long life. My affairs are in order - they have always been. You know to whom my swords should be sent; but I think that we shall not need to concern ourselves with such morbid thoughts. We may not see her at all - not if she is unable to tolerate daylight. Few demons can."

The words exit my mouth almost unbidden, "I don't want to go…" my voice trails off, and I look away, ashamed.

The scorn that I expect, however, does not follow. Instead, Cromwell's hand remains on my shoulder, and I turn back to him to see sympathy, "Was that so hard to admit?" He asks, quietly, "There is no shame in feeling fear. The man who has no fear has no courage. I would rather trust courage than fearlessness, for one is prudent where the other is reckless; and I do not mean to be reckless in facing this creature."

I know that I cannot win this argument, and I give up. Sighing, I nod, "Very well."

I do not sleep; I fear to do so - for sleep will bring the morning more quickly. Instead, I sit in front of the fire and try to prevent my head from nodding. When dawn comes, my eyes feel gritty, and my arms heavy. I should have slept; all I have done is increase the horrible fear that is biting at me, and left myself exhausted and useless.

When I arrive at the stables, Cromwell is in conversation with Wyatt, and hands him something carefully wrapped in hessian, "Remember, Tom. You must not use this except in the direst need, and only to save others. It does not permit you to use it to save yourself. You would be burned to nothing."

Wyatt nods, and swallows nervously as he transfers the mysterious item to a saddlebag. None of us are particularly well dressed; preferring instead to give the impression of lesser means. The horses are not ours, not even the one that William seems to have secured for my particular use. Clement, in particular, looks too much like the horse of a gentleman, and we do not wish to give that appearance.

"The ride should take us about an hour, if we keep up a brisk pace," Wyatt advises, "Let me know when I must wait."

We mount up, and depart. As we travel, we say little. I have nothing to add to my comments of yesterday, Wyatt is still sore at not being permitted to come with us to the priory, and Cromwell appears to be planning his approach. The only good thing is the brightness of the morning, alive with new spring life, and I attempt to revel in that rather than feed my increasing nerves at what we must face when we reach our destination.

Our journey pauses at the edge of the park. From this point, only the Court is permitted to ride, and we are less likely to be seen. Cromwell removes his swords from a bundle that has been set to the rear of his saddle, and hangs them from his waist. He does not seem to have bothered with the crossbow, and I allow myself to believe that he has decided not to attempt to engage Lamashtu, as he has no ranged weapon.

"Stay here, Tom." He advises, "But be ready - if we need your assistance, you shall know. If we do not return after a day, then we are likely dead. We have discussed what you must do should that happen."

I stare at Cromwell, horrified, but cannot find words to express the sense of mild panic that is now snapping at my heels. He thinks that we might _die_? Dear Christ and all the Angels - he _does_ mean to fight Lamashtu; what on all of God's sweet earth have I got myself into?

With a gentle kick of his heels, he moves the horse off at a walk, and I realise that I have no means of escape. I cannot refuse to go, as he will go without me if I do; and even though I am afraid, I cannot bring myself to leave him to face this alone. I can feel myself starting to tremble as I urge my mount forward to keep pace.

The priory, as we approach, seems entirely abandoned. No walls appear to be completely standing, and all about us the air seems oddly dead. The sun seems to have gone in, and wisps of mist emerge from the trees that surround us on all sides. No birds are singing, nothing seems to give any sense of life at all.

"If nothing else," Cromwell says, quietly, "the lack of life about this place is evidence enough of an evil presence."

These are the last words I wish to hear. I swallow hard, as I feel myself almost about to retch. Every instinct I possess is screaming at me to flee, and I keep pleading silently that Cromwell will decide that the risk is perhaps too great without further investigation of the library, and turn back. But he does not.

We pick our way carefully between the ruins. The priory church is long fallen, but then we see the intact structures. In the dull light they seem almost as dead as everywhere else. Perhaps she is no longer there. Please God, let her not be there…

Cromwell pulls up. There are gates ahead of us, which are open. Beyond is the court that we saw on the plan, surrounded by those intact buildings. None are higher than two storeys, but still they look deserted. Surely a woman of her station would have servants? He dismounts, and I do likewise, before we lead the horses into the court and leave them safely secured near the exit. My eyes are darting everywhere, looking for some sign that there is life here…

"So, you have come."

I almost scream out, such is the shock of the voice that I did not expect to hear. Looking about wildly, I see no-one but for myself and Cromwell. Where is she?

"We are expected, then?" Cromwell asks the empty yard.

"Oh, you poor, foolish… _little…_ man." The voice echoes, "Did you really think that Zaebos would not know that you had set your friend to follow him? If he must do so, I would advise him to wear a less distinctive scent."

I want to run - she knew we were coming. This must be a trap…

Then, with a horrid creaking, the gates behind us close firmly, and she appears - swirling into existence before us in a cloud of darkness that rises about her and disperses like smoke. Without hesitation, Cromwell draws his swords, and stand firmly in front of me.

"So you mean to fight me. How entertaining." She smiles. Even now, in my fear, I can see that she is, as her image promised, utterly luminous - how could something so beautiful be so evil? Every move she makes is graceful, including the sweep of her arms as she draws two long black swords from the empty air. Then she vanishes again.

As we look all about, I turn, and she is standing directly behind me. I am suddenly face to face with her, and she is raising her sword to strike at me…

I feel a heavy blow in my back, and tumble to the ground as a silver blade blocks the slice. With that, my nerve finally breaks, and I scramble to my feet to flee. I have no idea where I am going, but I am soon behind some sacks of grain, and watching fearfully as the two combatants make ready to fight.

I should help - I know that I should; but I cannot bring myself to move. If I do so, she might see me, and one of those awful black swords will run me through…a whimper escapes, and I feel as though I might shed tears. Dear God, am I really so lily-livered? It appears that I am.

Does Cromwell know that I have abandoned him to fight alone? Probably; but as I had no weapons, he could hardly have expected me to be of much assistance. He gives no sign of concern, but stands ready, his blades held firm to strike or defend as he needs them. Then, she lunges at him and he parries immediately, before they begin to battle with a speed and violence that I could not have ever imagined; not even against the Ravener.

It is impossible to see their moves, as they move so quickly, but then Cromwell deals Lamashtu a cut across her abdomen, slicing into her and sending black blood pumping out to the ground. She staggers back, with a strange cry and I feel a sense of jubilation that he was right after all. He has killed her…

But then, as we both watch her, she starts to laugh; a strange, guttural sound. Not because she is dying, but because the wound is already closing and vanishing. All that he has managed to do is slice her clothing - she is impervious to the silver in his swords - even a fully open wound seems not to harm her.

They fight again, and this time he manages to cut across her throat - right down to the bone - but again, the wound closes and heals almost immediately, and now I know that nothing Cromwell can do will bring her down. I feel myself trembling with a sick fear - if he cannot destroy her, then how are we to escape?

For a time, I think that all might be well - for he holds her at bay. But he is not a demon, he is human; and it is clear that he is tiring. In a single moment, she lashes out with the pommel of one sword and smashes the blade out of his left hand, which clatters across the flags in my direction. Now he has but one blade - but I could grasp the other…

But I cannot. I am frozen in fear - if Cromwell cannot defeat her, then I am truly lost. I stare at it helplessly as he tries to continue with one sword against her two. The outcome is inevitable. In a matter of minutes, the sword in his right hand is also across the flags, and her swords are quickly abandoned to vanish into the nothingness from whence they came. In that instant, she has him by the throat, and she begins to rise into the air, lifting him with her.

I could take the swords…I could throw them at her…I could distract her…but all I can do is watch as his legs kick wildly, and he chokes horribly. She is throttling him, his hands clutching at hers to try to release them. If I do not act, then he shall die.

I must fetch Wyatt…what else can I do? Frantic, I break cover and flee towards the horses.

"Oh no you don't!" the voice screeches behind me, gleefully, and a black spurt of smoke flies at the horse I had ridden, which almost in an instantaneous obedience to a sharply given order, drops down dead, while the other skitters away with a panicked whinny. Barely able to think, I turn back to see Cromwell's hands drop from hers. Laughing, she allows him to fall to the ground, where he lands heavily, and does not move. She pays me no mind. Instead, she stoops to grasp at Cromwell's doublet, and uses it to drag his body behind her as she enters the house.

Alone, I stumble back behind the grain sacks and drop to the ground. What kind of Second am I? What kind of human being? My panic served no one, and certainly not the Silver Sword Raven. He is dead - he must be.

And I am to blame.


	15. The Cedar Throne

 

As Lamashtu disappears through a doorway, dragging Cromwell's body as she goes, I stare helplessly from my hiding place. What have I done? My cowardice has led to the death of a far better man than I, and it was my inaction that condemned him. There might have been a time when I should have abandoned him without hesitation, and not even cared that he had met such a fate as this, but that time is long past. Such is my disgust at myself, grief over the death of a man whose friendship I was beginning to truly appreciate - and also my frightened dread of the demoness that defeated him so easily, that I cannot keep back tears, weeping miserably as I huddle behind the grain sacks.

I have no idea how long I remain there, crouching and blubbering like a useless, pointless fool; but eventually the tears dry, and I know I must act. Either I must do as Cromwell asked me, and restore his swords to Milan via Padua, or I can just leave. There is, after all, still one horse remaining - and I am sure I can open the gate…

The thought of an even worse abandonment revolts me, and I furiously berate myself as I stand and ease my way out into the courtyard to retrieve the two swords. I do not have the scabbards, or his gauntlets. If Cromwell is indeed dead, then they must be dispatched with his weapons - his instructions were absolute. Therefore, I must force myself to be brave - and go into that hideous house to find them and retrieve them as he did for his friend Hound. Trembling, I clutch the swords as though I intend to use them, and take a hesitant step forth.

Once inside, however, I have no idea where to go. All about me is dead silent; and the refusal of the sun to shine upon this cursed place surrounds me with a fearful darkness that hides everything about me in looming shadows. With not a single soul either in sight or hearing, I feel as though I am the last living man upon the earth.

A movement catches my eye, and I whirl about with a sharp yelp, swinging one of the swords wildly and almost sending a candlestick toppling. But it is nothing more than my own reflection, caught in the sheen of a silver mirror that hangs on the wall. I find I must pause to calm down and quell a sudden urge to turn tail and flee for the door. As I stand there, heart hammering, I find that my eyes are growing accustomed to the poor light, and I cannot keep a fearful whimper from emerging, as the panelled walls are decorated with mounted heads; not of animals, but of people. Is this what she has planned for Cromwell? To add his head to her collection?

"God forbid…" I mutter, faintly, and resume my tentative search.

I continue to see no living soul as I make my way through the passages and chambers for what seems like - and might even be - hours, for I have lost all sense of the passage of time. Surely the house is not so large? It did not seem so when we were in the courtyard - and yet now it feels as though I have been searching the chambers and corridors for days. Lamashtu appears to need no servants, or guards, it seems. While this is helpful to me in keeping me from being discovered, it fills me with dread as that horrible silence seems to close in on me all the tighter. A house with no life in it…just a demon, a corpse and a frightened fool with two swords. I feel myself wanting to run yet again, and I make myself stand still. What is it that Cromwell says?

"The Mission is All." I mutter firmly, "The Mission is All." For some reason, I continue to whisper those four words over and over, as I progress. It seems to help a little, and keeps the horror at bay as I pass yet more of those awful mounted heads - these are clearly older now, and are nothing more than skulls; with vile holes instead of eyes and empty spaces where their noses should be. How long has she been in this house?

My circuit of the ground floor is complete, as I find myself back at the door again. I have seen no one, and found nothing. Therefore I must go upstairs. Once more, I must fight with myself not to reach for that door and flee. God help me - I am truly an utter coward. No - I must be brave. I have to be - for how could I live with myself if I run away? My knees tremble now, but still I force myself to turn from that escape route, and choose instead to approach the stairs.

Each step creaks horribly as I climb, regardless of where I step to try and avoid making too much noise. If she cannot hear this, then she must be deaf. Perhaps she is waiting for me at the top, and my head will join Cromwell's on the wall…

The thought sends a ghastly chill through me, and I am angry with myself for thinking it - worse still, there are tears pricking at my eyes again, and I dash them away furiously. I must stop this… _The Mission is All…The Mission is All…_

I reach the landing. To my left, a corridor stretches almost endlessly into a silent, velvet-thick darkness; while, to my right, I see an open door to a large chamber beyond. Drawn to it - anything to avoid entering that corridor - I look through and see black-painted walls decorated with white-painted sigils that can only be of unholy origin, for the very sight of them causes me to feel as though creatures are crawling all over my flesh, and I am struck with a sense of real horror emanating from their sheer ugliness. The vaulted ceiling is also black, but painted with white stars that are, presumably, constellations, though none are familiar to me. Around the edge of the room, alcoves are set into the wall, some concealed behind an arras of black velvet, while others are revealed. Then I see the centre of the room, and know that my search is at an end.

Cromwell is seated in a chair, a heavy wooden construct of red wood - cedar, probably. His doublet is crumpled on the ground beside him, and his shirt is open at the neck - presumably to grant easy access for whatever blade she intends to use to decapitate him. Oddly, however, she has not removed his gauntlets or the scabbards, which point either side of him, extending beyond his knees like twin tails. He is bound to the chair with thick cords at the ankles, knees, wrists and chest. Either they are there to hold him from falling or, God be thanked, he is not dead after all.

My heart leaps with hope that I have not failed him, that he still lives - but the light is too weak for me to see if he is breathing, as - even if he lives - he is certainly unconscious, his head drooping forward. Hastening towards him, I reach to his wrist. He is warm, though if not long dead, that would not be unexpected. But then I feel it: a strong, steady pulse. He lives…

Again, I almost start to cry; this time with relief that I am able to effect a rescue - though how I shall carry him out of this place along with his swords, I have no idea. I have no knife to cut the cords - I hope that he will not mind if I use a sword…

_She is coming…_

Where the whisper in my mind comes from, I have no idea, nor do I care. It is a warning, and I am not fool enough to ignore it. I scramble away from the chair and fling myself behind the nearest arras, frantically trying to make it remain still while maintaining a small sliver of a gap for me to peep through. Not a moment too soon, it appears, as I can hear Lamashtu's voice nearby.

"Did you truly think you could best me?" she says - her voice no more than a whisper, yet sufficient to fill the entire room with sound, "I am older and stronger than any demon that walks this earth. Silver has no power to harm me."

He does not move. I have no idea if she is even addressing her words to him - perhaps she knows I am here…

No - there, his hand is moving…he is regaining his senses. Slowly, he raises his head and looks about, squinting a little as though his head is aching. I imagine it probably is - a demon of her power must be causing him a great deal of discomfort.

"The wonderful arrogance of men." Lamashtu continues, "I find it quite exciting that you consider me weak for I am but a woman. But I am stronger than you, and you shall know it before you die. That you are claimed to be the finest of your kind for more years than can be recalled intrigues me. If you are such a poor opponent, how can any of the others possibly stand against me?"

Then, at last, she finally comes into my view from the small gap between the arras and the wall of the alcove, and I stare at her in shock.

She is still as beautiful as ever, but her garment is of such a scandalous cut that I am truly appalled. It is little more than a shift, leaving her arms bare but for two metal cuffs at her wrists, while the skirt reaches to only her knees, if not a little higher, from which long bare legs emerge, also girded with cuffs at the ankles. The dress itself is covered in scales, long, thin discs of metal with pointed ends that clink against one another and glitter in what little light comes from the candles that illuminate this ghastly space. I am, however, uncertain now whether my interest is professional or not, as her clothes leave little to the imagination. Does she intend to seduce Cromwell, then?

If she does, he shows no sign of interest - he is absolutely impassive, and sits rigidly still. I remember his ability to do so, and wonder if this will help, or harm, him. As she circles the chair, moving sinuously and silently on bare feet, her hand traces over the linen of his shirtsleeves, up to his shoulder, then off and onto the chair, and then back onto his other arm as she makes her way back to face him. At no point does he move, not even his eyes. All he does is blink now and again.

"The swords are not enough." She advises him, her voice low in her throat, "They could never be enough for one as ancient and powerful as I." She leans in close to him, and I see him flinch for a moment. There is blood on his arm - and I realise that the scales on her dress are actually deadly sharp: he has been cut by one. I wish myself elsewhere as she faces him so close that they might be lovers, "It takes more than mere silver to destroy me. Had you not thought yourself invincible, then you might have taken the time to discover that."

She pulls away again, and now there is more blood on him from the scales on the front of the shift. Yet still he neither moves nor speaks.

"Of course, with your former Second at your side, that might have been different," she continues, "The witch Cassandra knew of my plans, though she knew me not, and aimed to ensure that they could not come to fruition. Bosworth was a setback - and it cost poor bentbacked little Dickon his life. Did you know that 'Boar' was not his device, but his sigil? Tudur did me no favours when his pikeman cut that stunted King down - he removed a remarkably effective opponent, but replaced him with a better one; Peace."

My eyes widen, Richard Crookback had been a Silver Sword? If Cromwell knows this, he gives no sign, but remains impassive.

Again, she draws in close to him, the scales slicing his arms further, "I thrive upon chaos. A little land riven by war for generations. I made this place my home, and I intend to make it my fortress. Wolsey was right - as well you know. I could not allow him to remain at your side, could I? And he loved you so; you were the son he never had."

I expect Cromwell to respond to this, but still he does not move; nor does his expression change. Even the jabbing and cutting of those hideous scales does not reach through that frozen countenance.

"How easy the Church is to manipulate - so set in its ways, so keen to keep its monopoly on God. You know that, don't you?" Her lips are at his ear, and the scales draw yet more blood from his chest, "That rotten midden of corruption that it has become. You wish to stamp it out. As do I."

My eyes widen, surely she isn't thinking of forming an alliance with him?

"Let us form a new Church, Raven. The Church of Death. All priests, bishops and popes shall be no more, just the worship of a goddess and her most feared destroyer - a dark creature with silver blades. This shall be my stronghold, and you shall be my general."

Silence. Nothing. He does not move. Whatever his views of the Church of Rome, he is still committed to God, he would never agree to such a thing. Surely?

Then, to my horror, she seats herself astride his legs, and presses herself against him. I want to look away, as she whispers in his ear. I am, however, glad that I do not, for I finally see him move. His gauntleted right hand slowly reaches inward and clutches one of the scales, which he then carefully detaches from the shift before concealing it in his palm and laying his hand flat again. Cromwell has no intention of an alliance - he seeks to escape. As he has no idea that I am present, he has taken the initiative as best he can, and must now hope that she will leave him. As do I - her behaviour is making me most uncomfortable.

At length, she pulls back again, and there more blood from scratches and scrapes about his throat. I can see well enough now to note that he is deathly pale, and his desire that she leave him in peace is almost visibly screaming from his eyes. Perhaps she notes this too, as she regards him for a while in silence.

"Perhaps you need time, lover." She leans forward again and this time her tongue emerges and she licks his face from chin to temple. Chuckling throatily, she pulls away from him, and slinks out of the hall.

For a few minutes, we are both frozen, I behind the arras, and Cromwell in the chair. Unsurprisingly, it is he who recovers first, and I watch, amazed, as he carefully shifts the stolen scale so that the sharp edge points towards the cords that hold his wrist. Concentrating hard, he begins to cut through the cords, pulling his arm back as he does so to gain more cutting space. In moments, the cord falls away, and he starts working on his left wrist. The cord about his chest is already sliced and frayed, and quickly drops, before he is freeing his knees, then his ankles. Finally, he steps from the chair, and reaches down for the doublet.

As he rises, he sways slightly, and grasps at the chair back to keep from falling. Whether his faintness is from his previous unconsciousness, or he is shaken by his ordeal, I know not, nor do I care, instead emerging from the alcove and rushing to his side, "God be thanked, Thomas, I thought you dead!"

Slowly, almost uncomprehendingly, he turns and seems to wonder for a moment who I am, then recognition emerges, and he grasps my arm.

"As I thought myself to be," He admits, a little faintly, "Come, Richard, we must leave this place." He tries to take a step, and almost falls. I have to hold him up as he closes his eyes, and forces himself to breathe more calmly, trying to regain some equilibrium. After a few moments, he straightens up again, and shrugs back into his doublet, wincing at the cuts as they are disturbed and rubbed by the broadcloth. He curses quietly, "I shall have to clean these when we are back at Hampton. At least they are not deep enough to require the sovereign specific."

Wordlessly, I hand him his swords, and he returns them to the scabbards that are still at his waist. As he does so, I realise that the candlelight seems brighter than it did when I first arrived. So fixed have I been upon my unwanted mission that I have lost track how many hours have passed. Clearly more than I realised, and night has fallen - we must make our escape in the dark.

"Lead on, Richard," Cromwell instructs, "I have no memory of how I got here - only you can guide us out."

He does not know, then, that our way is far easier than expected. All I need to do is take us back down the stairs, and the main door will be in front of us…

But it is not. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, the hallway into which we emerge is entirely different from the one I had left to climb them. What is this place? Where did the other hall go? How is it that I do not recognise this space? I dither, uncertain now where to go.

"What is it?" Cromwell asks.

"It has all changed - the room, everything. The door was here, right here. But it is gone. The room is different." I begin to babble as my fear rises. I can hear voices - laughter…all the heads on the walls…those dead skulls…all of them are now open mouthed…laughing at me…laughing…my breathing becomes quicker and I stare about, wildly at their gaping jaws that flap up and down as they express their delight at my uselessness...up and down...up and down...God, I want to run...to flee from their vile amusement...but I know not where to go...oh God save me...oh, dear God...

Cromwell grasps my shoulders and turns me round to face him. He must be able to sense my emerging panic, and he looks me firmly in the eyes, "Calm down. Breathe in and out as I do. With me." Watching him, I breathe in as he does, and then out. His eyes are piercing, and I cannot look away from them. For a moment there is nothing but a deep sense of calmness in that implacable gaze, and I begin to settle, as my blood pumps more slowly, and the clouds of fear disperse.

"Close your eyes, Richard." He instructs, "Try not to remember. Just use your instincts - they are the most trustworthy of our allies. Your feelings can deceive you, but your instincts are rarely so fooled. This was the point at which you entered, was it not?"

My eyes tight shut, I nod. I came into this hall and the stairs were before me. I know that I am facing them, so the door must be behind me. Still with my eyes closed, I turn about, and walk forward, my hand outstretched. Rather than the expected plaster, it instead comes into contact with wood. Running my fingertips downwards, I find the latch, and lift it. There is cool night air on my face, and I realise that I had, indeed, been deceived.

"She does not mean for us to escape, Richard. I have no doubt she has set hexes about the place to mislead you into thinking that you could not find a way out. As I did not see the way in, I could not have found it - only you could. Your instinct was that the door was still there - and so it was. Had she found me gone, she would expect to be able to hunt through the house at her leisure, as I could not find the exit. I am not sure she is aware of you - she did not mention you in reference to being my Second."

"She did not just end the marriage to Queen Katherine, did she?" I say suddenly, "She engineered Wolsey's downfall at the same stroke."

Cromwell nods, sadly, but has no time to offer any comment as the air is violently rent with a hideous screech. We exchange a glance; our escape has been discovered, and we have no more time to waste on words. I turn to the gates - which are open again, presumably of their own accord, which have allowed the one surviving horse to flee, as it has gone and only the corpse of the other remains. We must run, then - on foot - in which case, we are almost certainly doomed.

I turn back to Cromwell, but he is concentrating on the other buildings that surround the courtyard, and suddenly rushes to a pair of large wooden doors and wrenches them open, disappearing into the space beyond. I stare at him in frightened confusion: why hide? We are no safer here than we would be out in the park. But then I hear a whinny of a fearful horse and I realise that the building is a stable. As this registers with my racing brain, he suddenly emerges through the door astride a slightly panicked chestnut. There is no saddle, or bridle, but he is able to control the animal simply through his knees and heels and quickly pulls it to a stop beside some caskets, "Up, Richard - quickly! And for God's sake, hang on tight to me. To fall would kill you, and I cannot stop to retrieve you once we are under way. Hurry!"

I do not hesitate, and clamber up onto the caskets, before hastily getting up behind him, and clamping my hands tight about his waist. Another screech roars out into the night air, and the horse, with a scrambling of hooves, seems to almost spring to life from a standing start, and flees into the darkness through the gates to the park beyond.

* * *

I am being bounced about violently as the horse races at a terrific gallop, and I do what I can both to keep a tight hold about Cromwell's waist and to grip my knees to the animal's sides. At this speed, as I have been warned, if I fall, I die.

Then I hear it: a strange, horrible ululation; an unknown, hideous voice of hellish origin. She has sent something after us…

I almost do not dare to risk looking back, for fear of unseating myself, but then I do; and immediately regret it. The… _thing_ behind us seems to leap from tree to tree, black mist swirling about it like ink dropped into water. It has little solid form, but for hideous clawed feet that leave deep slices in the bark of the trees it grasps. Its face is worse - two pinpricks of red seem to serve as eyes, but the mouth is a great, gaping maw lined with dagger-like fangs that drip a foul, viscous liquid that glows almost blue, like poison. It moves with terrifying speed, and I cannot stand to watch, as it gains ground upon us at every leap. The horse is now going at such a maddened pace that I know we would not be able to stop it from rushing off a cliff if such a thing were in our path.

It will reach us long before we can get to the river - possibly even before we can reach Wyatt's hiding place. I close my eyes, bury my face into Cromwell's back in order to shut out any sight of what is behind us, and cling on with all I have. I can almost imagine that hideous mouth coming ever closer, ready to latch either side of my head and rip it from my body.

He is sitting low, bent forward against the neck of the horse to avoid being swept off by the branches that whisk above us, and I have no idea if he has seen what I have seen. As he must concentrate on staying on the horse, perhaps he has not. Maybe he even knows what follows us. I have no idea and, to a degree, I don't care. I just want to escape it.

Something seems to snap together close by my ear, and I cannot stop myself from cursing, "Christ's wounds! It is upon us!" Hell, my voice is almost a squeak.

Then we leave the ground briefly, and I cannot keep silent; yelping stupidly as I find myself bounced upwards. Somehow, I manage to keep my seat, as my grip on Cromwell is now so strong that I would almost certainly pull him with me if I fell. I realise that the horse has jumped something, and again it races along.

There is breath roaring in my ears, a vile stench forcing its way into my nostrils. It is coming for us; we cannot get away in time…

And then, without warning, bright, white light. Beside me, the horrid breath stops, and instead, with a screech, the hideous thing falls back. I risk turning back again to see it tumbling over itself like a stone down a hill. We are safe from that - but not from the danger of being thrown from the horse, which is now in full flight and beyond even Cromwell's skill to stop. At this rate, it will plunge us into the river…

Then another horse is beside us, going at full pelt. Wyatt guides it in, and leans to turn the head of our frantic beast, which starts to slow it. It feels like forever, but finally the blown animal staggers to a halt, and we tumble to the ground.

"What in God's name was that thing?" Wyatt demands, looking both fearful at what he has seen, and angry that we have had adventures in which he has not shared. If only he knew.

"Some sort of hell-beast, I suspect." Cromwell says, tiredly, "I have never seen one - but Wolsey found descriptions. If you had not come into the park and encountered us, we would surely be in its jaws by now."

"What scared it off?" I ask, rubbing at my hands to try and regain some feeling in them. They are sore from the tightness of my grip. I imagine that I will have added bruises to Cromwell's other injuries.

"This did." Wyatt hands me the object that had been wrapped in the sacking. It is a simple, unadorned cross of silver - until I turn it over, and find an inscription: _Use me not to save yourself. I save only others. Ego lux tenebras expellit. Lucet._ I think for a moment, dredging up a translation, "I am the light that driveth out the dark - shine?" I venture. Wyatt nods.

"It is a powerful blessing that was placed upon that cross in the midst of the Crusades," Cromwell explains, but before he can continue, Wyatt interrupts, "Don't tell us - we can guess. Wolsey found it?"

I manage to find it in myself to chuckle, and I am already feeling better. We are safe, we have escaped. We came so near to disaster this night - but we have emerged from it and can regroup to try again. I hope that, when that time comes, I shall be braver, though I cannot be certain of that.

"Come," Cromwell says, "Back to the Palace. We have done all that we can, and we can reflect upon this in the morning."


	16. A New Direction

 

I pass an uneasy night, woken often by fearful dreams of that vile house; and my waking is a wretched affair of gritted eyes and unrefreshed drowsiness. The manservant standing in for my ever capable John is clumsy and awkward, as he would not normally perform such a service; and, coupled with my own tired clumsiness, ensures that it takes me several attempts to properly button my doublet. Thank God he is not obliged to shave me.

We are to break our fast in Wyatt's chambers, as his are located furthest away from the busy staff cleaning the palace, and he is already up when I arrive. Cromwell has not yet appeared, and so Wyatt and I sit down together over mugs of small ale to consider our spectacular failure.

"What happened?" He asks, "Where did your horses go?"

"We miscalculated." I tell him, surprised that I manage not to say 'he', "Lamashtu was expecting us - and she was impervious to the silver in Cromwell's blades. Each cut he opened upon her closed again almost as soon as the blade had left it. I cannot help but wonder if she allowed him to wound her just so that we could see how little good those wounds would do. Then she disarmed him, and choked him unconscious." I stop, too embarrassed to admit to my cowardice and failure to run to his aid.

Wyatt's eyes widen, "What did you do?" then he sees the look on my face and sighs, "Ah."

'Yes," I retort, rather waspishly, "Ah."

"Forgive me," Wyatt apologises, "I did not intend to sound as though I was passing judgement. You were unarmed, and lack my stupid impetuosity. I suspect that Thomas would have rather you had sought concealment - for then he would not have had to fear any harm being visited upon you, and could concentrate his full attention on the fight."

"And instead, I thought that she had killed him." I admit, "And, by extension, I had been responsible, through my inaction, for his death."

Before Wyatt has the chance to respond to my confession, the door opens, and Cromwell enters. He has not bothered with his finer clothing, and moves awkwardly as the broadcloth of his doublet chafes against his wounds. He does not look happy at all, and I immediately move to plead his forgiveness for my cowardice; but he holds up his hand to stop me.

"No, Richard. It is I who should apologise to you. Allow me to speak." As I nod, he crosses to the fireplace and seats himself in one of the softer chairs, gazing into the flames for a moment. "You fought with me to prevent our entering into a situation for which we were unprepared, and I disregarded your advice. While it is my prerogative to overrule my Second, I should not have done so with such speed; nor should I have done so in such a complacent manner. In _doing_ so, I placed our mission in jeopardy, and your life in peril. I have acted stupidly and for that, I can only plead your forgiveness." As he finishes his statement, he turns to me. He is absolutely sincere.

"I…" for a moment, I stutter, lost for words, "I accept your apology, but only if you accept mine for my utter cowardice in fleeing from the fight. My fear was so great that I became almost frozen, and I could not think or act."

Cromwell turns back to the fire, "So was mine."

Wyatt and I exchange a shocked glance, and Wyatt turns to him, "What do you mean?"

"As the demon took my second sword, and grasped my throat, I, too, could not think, or act. I have not known such terror since I was a boy hiding in a closet from a revenant; my only thought was," he pauses for a moment, and when he speaks next, we can hear the changing timbre as distress begins to emerge, "my thought was that I was about to die, and my boy, my Gregory, would be an orphan - and what would become of him now?" And suddenly, utterly unexpectedly, he is in tears. His head drops into his hands, and his shoulders heave with heavy, almost violent sobs that rack him, while we stare in disbelief. Before I can move, Wyatt is by his side, "Do not fear for him, Thomas - even had you been lost in the night, Gregory would never have been abandoned – for, even were he not surrounded by your wider family, we would have seen to his care and his future, and would have done so gladly and to honour your name. That is a promise - it is a duty that we would accept willingly even if unasked – and particularly so if there was no other soul to aid him. But you were _not_ lost - you escaped. You live and your boy still has his father."

This does not seem to help. Perhaps this catharsis is more to do with other horrors that have haunted him - the loss of the family in Florence, the loss of the Cardinal - who had viewed him as a son. The aching loneliness of widowhood. So much that has been held back for so long; and, now that he is in sympathetic company, will no longer be denied.

Now we are both beside him, and are lost for words. We have neither of us seen Cromwell exhibit such emotion before, and I think that neither of us ever believed that he could. He has drooped forward to the point that he is all but bent double, his face buried in his crooked arms, that rest on his knees. I am no longer sure whether this is because of his anguish, or perhaps sheer embarrassment at expressing it. He does not move for some considerable time, even after the tears have dried, and I think perhaps it is the latter. Gradually, however, he moves, and Wyatt retrieves a kerchief, which he waves like a flag of surrender as Cromwell finally looks up. He accepts it gratefully, and mops up the teary mess, "Dear God," he says, suddenly, "Has this been soaked in sandalwood? No wonder Zaebos smelled you."

And then, paradoxically, we are all laughing.

Despite the unpromising start, our breakfast is a jovial affair, and somehow the horrors of last night take on an almost heroic cast as we relate the whole disaster to Wyatt, who is most offended that his observances were so easily detected. My description of Lamashtu's dress fascinates him, largely for its lack of coverage of her form, and he is quickly pelted with two napkins in response to his off-colour observations as to its possibility as a new fashion at Court.

"Enough," Cromwell says, eventually, "If our first mission has been an abject failure, our second must not be. The fates may be accommodating of our errors, but I have yet to see the King be so generous."

Putting dark thoughts of demons and evil behind us, we instead consider dark thoughts of legal dealings and fraud; and visit the great hall to view the problems that have been uncovered. It is quite a relief to revert to our usual employment, and I am soon immersed in documents setting out the problem, with particular attention to the recommendations of the Masons. They are looking uncommonly nervous - which is no surprise as the King has sent such highly placed Ministers to review their assessment - and I cannot help but think that they must have overstated the amount of work to be done, as they shuffle so uncomfortably. As I am not a mason myself, I have already thought of some local tradesmen from whom I can obtain another view, and I am quite certain that my suspicions will be proven correct.

As he has no particular role to perform, Wyatt is clearly becoming bored, and we see him wander in and out of the hall now and again in an aimless fashion until Cromwell dispatches him to the stables to find out if the errant horse has found its way back. While we lost one of them, we did return with another one, which the stable master considers to be adequate compensation for the beast that was killed - though Wyatt has pretended that it was purchased, rather than stolen and ridden away with a hell-beast on its tail.

When he returns, however, he has more to report than merely on the fate of the missing horse, which he is pleased to announce _has_ found its way back to its stable. He has seen one of the builder's boys in surreptitious discussions with some merchants in one of the rose gardens, and Cromwell leaves me with my papers in an attempt to catch them in the act.

They do not reappear until we repair - as agreed - to Cromwell's apartment for our midday meal, and both look very pleased with themselves. Cromwell has a fistful of papers, receipts and bills by the look of it, which he sets to one side as we sit down to a Friday fast meal of carp, mackerel and bread. It seems that the merchants, using the boy as a go-between, have been conspiring with the construction crew to gouge the royal purse, and now Cromwell has the proof. Added to the second opinions that I aim to obtain this afternoon, we are likely to be able to reduce the cost of the repairs very considerably. At least _one_ of our missions has proved a success.

* * *

It has taken us no more than a week to complete the task for which the King assigned us a fortnight. The merchants I engaged for their views were able to confirm that the damage was not as bad as feared, and would, in fact, be a simple matter to resolve. While they admitted that the costs would still be considerable, my calculations suggest that they are probably a quarter less than the sum originally claimed. Given that the original masons have been caught attempting to defraud the Crown, Cromwell has managed to demand that the costs be reduced by a third. If they exceed that sum, they must defray those costs themselves, as he still has the sets of receipts that prove their plans - and he will present them directly to the King if the Master Mason does not agree.

For the last few days, we have not spoken of any matters other than those that we would have spoken of if we were not engaged in our secret fight against darkness - and we all feel refreshed because of it. As our work at Hampton is done, there is nothing now to keep us, and Cromwell advises that we should prepare for our departure back to Placentia. He does not mention the Priory at Richmond, to my relief. We can regroup and reconsider once we are back at Greenwich.

The journey back is a most unpleasant affair, as the weather has broken, and we are obliged to travel in heavy rain that leaves us all sodden to the skin and miserably cold. Only our belongings are dry, as the cart is covered, and I begin to wish I had travelled in that.

By the time we reach Placentia, we are all stiff and thoroughly chilled to the bone. Our stop to eat on the way did nothing to warm me, and I hope that John has dry clothes ready. He might perhaps even have prepared a bath - that would be most welcome, as would some hot pottage, as I am hungry as well as cold. Wyatt's teeth are chattering, and Cromwell is shivering. I cannot help but think that we could not look any less heroic if we tried.

William emerges from under some eaves to begin supervising the dispatch of our belongings to our chambers. He mutters something to Cromwell, who thanks him quite profusely, before turning to us, nodding and hastening inside. I am not long in following, to find that John has met my expectations with aplomb, and a tub of steaming water awaits while a set of dry clothes are draped over a chair, warming near the fire. That, some warming pottage and a decent night's rest, and I shall be ready to make a report to the King in the morning.

Before we enter the Privy Chamber, Cromwell and I decide to posit our findings as concerned overestimation rather than concerted fraud. The King does not like to be gulled, and certainly the discovery that the masons had attempted to obtain payment through false pretences will anger him. As the masons have since proved remarkably amenable - thanks to the evidence we have - to reducing the costs, it is probably best to let him revel in our success in obtaining the reduction rather than express rage at how the costs were arrived at in the first place.

Not surprisingly, Cromwell has already been in the offices, and sat down with Wriothesley to discuss matters that have arisen in his absence. What _is_ surprising is that there have been no further deaths since our departure to Hampton and I am not sure whether to be relieved or concerned. Why are there no raveners? Is it the presence of Zaebos that is keeping them at bay? Why has he stopped attacking people? It is most perplexing.

The King is waiting for us, and he seems to be in a strange mood - half placid, yet half tense. I dread to imagine what is in his mind, but as I am not Royal, it is not for me to know. Instead, I stand by while Cromwell sets out our findings, and advises that we have brought the overall costs of repairs down by a third. For a moment, I wonder if Henry has heard a word that Cromwell has said to him, as he seems distracted - but then he turns and nods, "Excellently done, Mr Cromwell. I am most pleased with your efforts; and yours too, Mr Rich." He then waves his hand in dismissal, so we bow and depart.

"Is he quite well?" I ask, as we return to the offices.

Even Cromwell looks uncertain, "I cannot tell - he seems to be caught in a dilemma of some kind. What it is, I could not begin to guess, nor would I wish to. I imagine it shall be revealed in time - but I hope that it does not mean more work for us."

The rest of the day is quite swallowed up with work that Wriothesley could not authorise in our absence, and I have no time to give our observations another thought. Darkness has fallen by the time I am able to set the quill aside, rubbing at my cramped hand, and look up to see who remains at work. Daniel is the only clerk still present today, busying himself with the candles. Wriothesley has departed, and - again - Cromwell and I are the only other occupants. I may have finished my work for the day, but he has not. I dispatch Daniel to fetch us some ale, and take a seat opposite his desk. As soon as the boy delivers a pitcher and two cups, I dismiss him for the evening as soon as he has finished clearing. We can see to the candles before we depart.

I leaf through a book while I wait for Cromwell to finish his work. He says nothing, but continues to write. He knows that I do not expect him to fill the silence with pointless conversation, and I am quite capable of keeping myself occupied while I wait until he is ready. I notice briefly that Daniel, who has finished locking the coffers away prior to obeying my dismissal gives us a curious glance before he leaves. We really are spending far too much time in each other's company, it seems.

At length, he is done, and I set the book aside. Rather than talk in the office, I follow him to his apartments, where William has already set out supper for us - though he has also set a place for Wyatt, so I assume the poet will be joining us at some point. Barely a quarter hour after our arrival, he does so, and we settle down to discuss the strange lack of bloody deaths while we have been gone. After the events that preceded our visit to Hampton, they seemed to have become something of a regular occurrence, and is their absence that seems odd.

"Forgive my interruption, Sirs," William says, as he pours out the claret, "but, while no corpses are being found, this does not mean that the killings have stopped. The lowliest of the servants are in great fear - but as they are of such poor stock no one of higher rank seems to give them much regard."

Cromwell looks at him, concerned, "That would not be so in our case. How many have been taken?"

"To my knowledge, three. There may be more - but it is impossible to know for certain."

"God have mercy…" Wyatt murmurs, "they are not found?"

William shakes his head. It is clear that Zaebos has not ended his predations - he is instead concealing them. It is known that the lowest ranked servants are inclined to flee their posts on occasion as they are nothing but drudges and treated so. I am sure that, were I one such individual, I would do much the same. No wonder the disappearances have not been noted.

"That is unacceptable." Cromwell says, clearly perturbed, "There is not a soul within these walls that does not deserve the highest degree of protection. When was the last servant lost?"

"Two nights ago, Sir." William supplies, "His master was quite cruel to him, so it is assumed that he has fled. He was, however, courting one of the kitchen maids - a pot-washer - and she is quite insistent that he would not have abandoned her. Most say that she is telling herself comforting tales in her misery - but she will not have it any other way."

"Fetch her." Cromwell orders, "I think we should interview her - if nothing else to put her mind at rest that we will consider her fears seriously."

While William is gone, Cromwell busies himself setting a comfortable chair near the fire, and pours out a small measure of hippocras to set on a small table beside it. He then sets another across from it, and asks us to remain at the table. Given the lowly status of the girl we are about to meet, it is likely that she will be struck dumb by the illustrious status of the King's highest ministers, so he is doing what he can to see to her comfort.

The girl, when she arrives, is barely sixteen. Her hands are raw and scarred with chilblains, her face is thin and looks pinched; she is not well dressed, and she is obviously terrified of us. Speaking gently, and with kindness, Cromwell guides her to the comfortable chair and offers her the hippocras. As she sips at it, he asks her her name. She is, as I feared, struck dumb at first, and he sits opposite her to try again.

"My name is Thomas," He says to her, "What's yours?"

"Molly." She whispers, terrified.

"You have nothing to fear from us," He continues, "This is Mr Rich - Richard," he points at me, "and this is Tom Wyatt. We wish to help you."

"Is it 'bout Dickon?" she asks, almost inaudibly.

Cromwell looks up at William, who nods. He turns back to her, "Yes. That's right. What has happened?"

"They says he's run off. But he ain't. He wouldn't, Sirs, I know he wouldn't…" her voice rises for a moment, and then she stops, and seems almost to shrink back into herself, tears beginning to run down her cheeks.

Immediately, Cromwell is out of his chair, and in front of her, on his knees. Taking her hand, he looks into her bleary, damp eyes, "I believe you. I wish I could tell you that all was well, Molly, but I cannot. I have no doubt - none at all - that Dickon has not abandoned you. But…" he stops, and sighs, "I think there is talk in the servant's hall, is there not?"

She nods, frightened again - but this time of those horrible rumours of which the grand nobles know nothing.

"There's something hiding in the passageways, Sir," she stammers, held by his sincere gaze, "No one knows what it is - but there's talking 'bout it. They says it bites out your weasand and leaves you dead. We're all scared - but the mistresses say we're fools. But we isn't, Sir, I promise we isn't!" Her voice has risen again, and she looks at us in turn as she speaks. There is fear in her eyes - fear of something that she cannot comprehend. As we know exactly what she fears, none of us look at her askance.

"Are you afraid to stay here, Molly?" Wyatt asks, quietly, "In the Palace, I mean."

She nods, then says, 'I ain't got nowhere else to go." Turning back to Cromwell, she looks at him again, "It's got my Dickon, hasn't it, Sir?"

He nods, "I am truly sorry, Molly - but yes, I think that is likely. Had I known, I would have done something to try to stop this - but I promise you; I _promise_ ," he repeats his words to emphasise his determined sincerity, "I will do all I can to find this thing and stop it." He turns and looks up, "William, would you escort Molly back to her quarters, please?"

As they depart, he gets back up into his chair and sits for a while. The girl's testimony has quite shattered our mood, and no one has any appetite for the cold leavings that remain of our supper.

"It can only be Zaebos." Cromwell says, eventually, "A Ravener would lack the wits to conceal a corpse, while a Revenant would care nothing for the disruption it would cause to leave it on display. Why, however, he is doing this, I cannot begin to guess."

"What are you going to do, Thomas?" Wyatt asks, "Other than offer that girl employment at Grant's Place?"

Cromwell turns, startled, and Wyatt laughs, "Come now, I have known you long enough to know how you are inclined to think on occasions. Does Goodwife Dawson not need another helper in her kitchen?"

While I have not expected this, I cannot help but smile, "And, if nothing else, it gives us another excuse to search the Library, does it not?"

Cromwell raises his hands in mock surrender, "I shall speak to the King on the morrow and secure a leave of absence to undertake some domestic arrangements. Are you happy?"

"Most." Wyatt grins, raising his cup.

Despite his success at Hampton, Cromwell returns to the office with the disappointing news that he cannot secure a few days at Grant's Place. He has, however, arranged for Wyatt and I to go in his stead as he is quite convinced that our inexperienced eyes might catch something that his familiarity has missed. He has also, as Wyatt surmised, spoken to the mistress of the maids and secured the girl Molly an appointment in the care of Goodwife Dawson. He has written to her to expect a new pair of hands, so when we arrive with the girl, she will not complain of being left unaware yet again. We consider Molly to be quite scared enough without having to endure the Goodwife's anger at our inability to keep her informed.

William is remaining at the Palace, so it is Wyatt and I, with Molly and her small bag of belongings, that board a wherry to take us up to the Tower. As Cromwell has made arrangements ahead, a carriage that has clearly required a hasty clean awaits us, and we are ferried in relative comfort to the rambling house. Molly, who has never travelled in such style, remains silent throughout, though her wide eyes do all the talking for her. It is distracting her from her grief, I suspect, as she becomes quite damp eyed as Goodwife Dawson greets her in a most motherly fashion on our arrival, and ushers us all into the house with a great deal more friendliness than we usually receive when we arrive unannounced.

Offering us some ale and bread, she leaves us to our own devices with the advice that supper will be served at nightfall. While she is not kept apprised of the secret the house contains, she is no fool; and she immediately adds that she will knock if she needs to speak to us once we enter the chamber that contains the secret door.

We have no idea how we are to approach the problem. Our previous interrogation of the Index led us nowhere, and neither of us can think of any other details that Wolsey might have noted. Once down in the library, we leaf through pages in hope that we might have missed something; but again with little success. Disappointed, and not a little frustrated, I lean against one of the tables and rub at my eyes with the heels of my hands, "We are making no progress, Tom. None at all. I feel so utterly useless."

"Then let us act uselessly." Wyatt suggests, and I glare at him, until I realise that he is quite serious, "If directed searches are making no progress, shall we not attempt the random instead?"

"Random?" I ask, almost dumbly; the idea seems somehow scandalous to my ordered mind.

"I see no reason why not. Perhaps blind chance may succeed where orderly method has faltered."

"What method to you propose?"

Wyatt closes the book, "I shall close my eyes, and open the book randomly. Then I shall point at a page."

I sigh; but without a better suggestion, I agree, "Go on, then."

Closing his eyes, Wyatt opens the Index, and then stabs his finger to a page. Leaning in, I find it has landed on an entry, and read it out, "There are many thoughts in relation to pixies, as to whether they exist or they do not." I advise him, "Wilder suggestions that they reside in the shelter of mushrooms are commonplace, but are unscientific."

"Wolsey wrote that?" Wyatt exclaims, leaning in to check the words I have just read and pointedly ignoring my glare. Then he shrugs, "You try."

Rolling my eyes, I step in front of the reading desk and close the Index again. Shutting my eyes, I open it and point.

"Pointed discussions on the efficacy of Love Potions by a Master Schmidt of Gothenburg - Volume CVI." Wyatt reports. I find this hard to believe, and have to look for myself. But he is not jesting. I look at him, crossly, "Your turn."

Our attempts uncover a treatise on the reproductive habits of imps, a strange force that causes Priests to curse in the most sulphurous terms - accompanied by a note in Wolsey's own hand to the effect that there is nothing strange about it at all - and a rather unnerving reference to raising dead corpses. With no suggestion of getting any further forward, I am about to curse and give up, when Wyatt presses me to try one more time.

"We could do this all night, and get nothing!" I retort, "I am tired, and hungry. Goodwife Dawson is likely cursing our absence at her supper table while we point stupidly at a book in the cellar!"

"It's another hour to nightfall, did you not hear the clock chime?" Wyatt grins, cheerfully, "Besides, I'm quite enjoying this. Who could have known that Wolsey retained all of this sort of nonsense?"

Just to annoy him, I re-open the book, to see a rather elaborate drawing at the top of the right hand page. Wyatt reminds me to shut my eyes and, for luck, he will shut his, too. I groan inwardly, but comply.

As I do so, I hear an odd shuffling, flapping sound, but assume this is Wyatt playing the fool again. Thoroughly irked, I stab my finger down onto the book, and open my eyes. Then I frown, "That's strange."

"What is?" Wyatt asks, leaning closer.

"The page has changed. There was a drawing at the top of the right hand page before I closed my eyes - but it has gone. This is a different page." I lean in to check the words that I have selected, "A treatise on arcane rituals and practices of long dead cultures - Volume MCXXI"

Tom departs into the mass of shelves, and is gone for some time. When he returns, he has a small, black bound book that looks to be of considerable age. He leafs through it briefly, and then pauses.

"I think we've found something." He says quietly, "Much as I hate to annoy Goodwife Dawson, I think we should return to Placentia as quickly as we may. This will not wait."


	17. In Love With Blood

 

Darkness is gathering as we emerge back into the chamber above, and I know that no Wherryman will risk the river at night. Not as far as Placentia. Wyatt nods in irked agreement; but whatever is in the book he found, he is worried about it, and intends to depart as soon as possible in the morning. When I ask why, he shakes his head, "I would rather tell both you and Thomas at the same time. It saves me having to repeat myself - and, anyway, putting your heads together at once will work through it far more quickly than each of you on your own. I don't think you realise how much you two complement each other."

The thought has certainly never occurred to me.

We dine that evening on a crisply roasted duckling that sits on a bed of thick frumenty. As always, Goodwife Dawson has supplemented the meat with a sallet, using some of the new spring leaves that the gardener has warmed to life under glass: sharp with sorrel and verbena. Such is her skill that she seems to be wasted here, maintaining a barely used house that serves no permanent function as a home, and exists solely to support one man's deadly career. She has not the funds to place a fine claret on the table tonight - but she has secured a highly excellent beer, and we sup heartily despite Wyatt's clear frustration at being unable to leave; not to mention my irked frustration at his refusal to tell me what it is that he is so frustrated about.

Eventually, he relents - a little, "You may recall that Thomas has mentioned that Lamashtu has plans to turn this island into a fortress for her kind?"

I nod. Not only have I heard this from Thomas, it has come from Lamashtu herself.

"This volume details rituals to aid that plan."

My eyes widen; now I understand Wyatt's determination to get back to Placentia. It is, however, too late to do so tonight, so we retire to the rooms that Goodwife Dawson has prepared for us, and I imagine that Wyatt sleeps no better than I. At least the unpleasant dreams about the Priory have ceased.

The following morning, we break our fast hastily, chewing as quickly as we can on the bread and cheese, and gulping mouthfuls of the small ale. As we are returned to the Tower water gate, my stomach churns acidly and I regret bolting my food. I do, at least, have some time to regain my digestive equilibrium, however, as there are no wherries at either the Tower gate, or the nearby wharves. The tide is favourable and all have been hired. We shall have to wait until someone disembarks and we can lay claim to the boat that drops them.

For a man so usually calm, Wyatt's annoyance is astonishing, and I turn to him, "Why are you so perturbed? Surely the urgency is not so great?"

He shakes his head, "That I cannot say, Richard. All that I know is that servants have been taken in the night, and this ritual requires blood. Therefore, it may be that matters are already proceeding, and we are racing behind in hopes of catching up. The greater the delay, the more we are left in its wake."

I find myself affected by his worry, and we are both in a fever of concern as we look out at the boats on the river. There are wherries aplenty, but each of them transports passengers, and none seem to be stopping at the Tower wharves. The clock has struck an hour on from our arrival before one finally pulls alongside, and Wyatt takes immediate steps to secure it, offering the Wherryman a full gold mark to transport us - as quite a crowd has gathered, and all want to hire the lone vessel. His generosity - or perhaps desperation - tips the balance in our favour, and we ignore the angry faces as we board. They have no idea how important our journey is - and it is of no interest to us that some of them have waited longer than we have.

Even with the current in our favour, the trip takes longer than we would have liked, and Wyatt is becoming increasingly vexed at the almost endless delays that have impeded us since we left Grant's Place this morning. It is now nearly midday, and my indigestion has been replaced with hunger. We do not stop to eat, but make our way directly to the offices in the hopes that Cromwell will be there. He is not, and Wyatt almost curses aloud. Why is nothing simple today?

"The Lord Chancellor is with the King and the Privy Council," Wriothesley advises, blandly, "He has not given any indication of how long he is likely to be. Might I have some claret fetched for you?" He is clearly bemused to see Wyatt, who has no reason to be in the offices; particularly in his agitated state.

I make a quick check at my desk and find that nothing urgent has been left for me. I turn to Wriothesley, "Mr Wyatt and I shall repair to my chambers. Could you advise the Lord Chancellor that we are there? We have not yet dined, and I suspect that he has not either. Perhaps he might wish to join us?"

"I shall do so, my Lord," Wriothesley says, doubtfully, "But I should be surprised if the Lord Chancellor will have time to leave the offices - we are most busy at this present time."

Wyatt opens his mouth to protest, and I quickly tread on his foot, "Perhaps - but we should like to grant him the opportunity to dine with us." I smile, ingratiatingly, then snatch Wyatt's arm and pull him out behind me.

Despite our unannounced arrival, John has managed to secure a rabbit pie with prunes and some fresh bread for dinner, and we sit down to await Cromwell's arrival. He does not disappoint us, and arrives just as Wyatt is about to prise the lid off the pie dish, "What have you found?" he asks, at once.

Immediately, Wyatt hands him the book, "It does not make pleasant reading," He advises, "Richard is not aware of the contents yet - I wished you to see it at the same time. I always enjoy watching the two of you thinking aloud at each other."

That martyred expression is back on Cromwell's face, but it soon fades as he looks through the pages; replaced with deep concern. It is only as he flips through to the back that we realise that we have delivered more than we expected, as a folded paper drops out onto the floor. Bending to retrieve it, Cromwell looks at the seal, and sighs.

"What?" I ask, quietly.

"It's from the Cardinal." He replies, a little sadly.

Picking up a knife, he breaks the seal and opens the letter, scanning only the first few lines. Then he frowns, "Forgive me, I have not read this cipher in some time. It may take me a while to relate what he says as the cipher is based on Latin."

"Is the letter not for you?" Wyatt asks, assuming that Cromwell requires privacy. Instead, he shakes his head.

"No, this is for all of us - the front of the letter bears a Raven. It is not so much an instruction as advice on how we have reached the point at which we stand. He intends for this to instruct my new Second as much as me." He looks up at Wyatt, and smiles briefly, "I don't imagine he expected me to have a Third."

Wyatt sits back and waves his arm expansively, "Tell all, Mr Cromwell, I am all agog with excitement."

Cromwell sighs again, and begins to translate.

_My Dear Raven,_

_I had hoped to have told you of these events in person, so that you could question me as you needed to. That, alas is no longer possible. I must depart from Grant's Place to York, and I do not think that I shall return - or if I do, I shall do so in chains._

_Thus I must leave you to face this trial alone. I hope that you are able to secure a Second - though I must offer my sympathy to that unfortunate individual, in that they are unprepared for what is to come. The tribulation ahead was foreseen more than fifty years past by the witch Cassandra - one of the wisest of all the Seconds ever to be attached to the Order. It was she who understood that, when the time came, England's protector must be supported by the most highly trained Second that had ever been known. I was chosen to be that Second - even before I had considered entry to the Church._

_If you have not already found the papers that spoke of the demoness Lamashtu, I urge you to find them; though alas they are not sufficient to provide you with the information that you need to face her. Cassandra did not know who we faced, and it was my own researches which identified her. She is impervious to silver, and - despite my best endeavours, I have not found any means of destroying her. That is a task that you must entrust to your new Second, whoever he - or she - may be._

_Little is known of Lamashtu's origins other than that she stalked the deserts of the empires that surround the Holy Land, and was feared by all. How she knew of the strife with which poor England was riven when the First Henry left his kingdom in the hands of his daughter, I cannot say, for none know. England was not prepared for a woman to rule, and thus began the first paroxysm of war between brothers that brought her to our unhappy shores to feast on the suffering of the people._

_She destroyed a priory of Benedictines, and took up residence in their former home - where she remains to this day. In that time, she could ravage at will, for those who were lost were thought to have died in the conflicts that rent the land. Even after the succession was settled, the kings continued to make war, and the people suffered - and rose in revolt over and over again._

_In time, two cadet branches of the Plantagenet line - Lancaster and York - strove against one another to claim the throne. Amongst their number was a youth who had been trained to bear Silver Swords - but not at the House. He was Richard, and his claim to the throne was decided not by his own will, but by the High; for Lamashtu wished to bring down the line, and maintain the anarchy that it would inspire._

_Cassandra had foretold that it would be the White Boar that would bring peace to the realm - but the High did not anticipate the manner in which he would do so. It was his death that brought about that which Lamashtu feared, not his life. In his place Harri Tudur claimed the Crown by right of conquest, and ceased to make wars unless forced to do so._

_I have always striven to persuade the King to avoid war, for it is war that gives Lamashtu freedom to pursue her plans for this realm. He is not like his father - he sees war as a gallant enterprise, not as an evil to be avoided unless absolutely necessary. You may have guessed for yourself that Lamashtu seeks to disrupt the succession - for this is her only means now of restoring the state of strife that she desires to act as she pleases. There may already be minions amongst you, sowing the seeds of discord and gathering poor souls to give their blood to the rituals that this book relates._

_Forgive me, Raven, for my disjointed tale - for I am in great fear, both for myself and for you. Had the Queen borne sons, we would not be as we are; but she has borne but the one living daughter. The succession remains at risk, and none are truly safe until it is secure. The time of trial that Cassandra foresaw was not solved at Bosworth - it is yet to be faced, and it is you who must face it. And you do not have the Second that was prepared and trained to assist you - that burden must be taken on by another. I can only ask their forgiveness for its weight. A King without a son to succeed him is the greatest danger a realm can face. If Lamashtu, or one of her minions, can bring about his death, then all that was won at Bosworth, at the cost of a Silver Sword of almost equal talent to yours, shall be lost._

_I beg you, Raven, do not, under any circumstances attempt to face Lamashtu - she is impervious to the bite of silver, and she would destroy you before your task is complete. It is the ritual that you must disrupt - for without it, she cannot claim that which she desires most - the blood of the King, for she is in love with blood and the rivers of red that would flood free in the wake of his loss._

_Once that trial is ended, there is hope that a means can be found to destroy her - but that is a task that I must place upon your new Second. Do not be fooled into thinking that the trial is a simple matter if the first steps appear easy. There is much to be done, and you must concentrate upon protecting the King - but, above all, His Grace Must Not Know._

_Your Second._

_W_

"I wish we'd found _that_ before we went to Richmond." I mutter, crossly.

"Wolsey's timing leaves much to be desired." Wyatt agrees.

Cromwell ignores us, and is instead beavering into the book again. He sits and reads it at length, his expression concerned, "It appears that we must avert this ritual before a Blood Moon." He says, after a while.

"How are we supposed to know when to expect one?" Wyatt asks, "What _is_ a blood moon?"

"It is nothing mystical, Tom," I advise, grateful that I can answer a question, for once, "It is merely a lunar eclipse. The shadow of the earth makes the moon appear red. They can be predicted. In fact," I sit up, suddenly remembering a paper I had read by an astronomer in Clerkenwell, "there is one before the end of this month. There have always been prophecies attached to them - but they are nothing more than an astronomical phenomenon."

"In this case, perhaps," Cromwell says, "It is not. Blood moons have significance in infernal circles just as much as in Christian ones. Whether we like it or not, this ritual is tied to a Blood moon - which, I presume, is why Zaebos has begun abducting servants."

"They may still live?" I ask, hopefully.

"It is very likely." Cromwell agrees, "Though for how much longer, I would not be willing to lay any odds."

"But what are we trying to avert?" Wyatt asks, and we look at each other, a little embarrassed to have gone off on such a tangent. Cromwell quickly returns to the book and reads again.

"Put simply, Zaebos must drain the blood of six innocents on the night of a Blood Moon. This blood must be mixed with certain herbs of remarkably benign origin, and drunk by Lamashtu before the night is ended. This will grant her power to destroy all upon whom she casts her eyes - and none can stand against her."

"How is he going to do that in a single night?" Wyatt demands, "It sounds more to me like a recipe for blood sausage!"

"Remember how quickly he can move, Tom." I remind him, "The distance between Placentia and Richmond would be nothing to him." I then turn, grimacing, " _Human_ blood sausage?"

"But why go to so much trouble?" He persists, "If she can create swords out of nothing, and cut down any who come against her with either blades or her mere will alone, why does she need the blood?"

"So that she can act silently." Cromwell says, "If she came with blades and smoke, then all would give their lives to protect the King - and he could flee to safety as they died. This way, none can fight her, for they fall at her feet without so much as a cry. The King's grace would be utterly unprotected - and could not hope to survive. It is the surest way."

I shudder at the thought. We must prevent it - at all costs; but we are held by a single problem.

Where is Mortimer?

While it is a great relief to know that the missing servants are almost certainly still alive, we have no idea where they might be imprisoned, for imprisoned they are. Cromwell asks John to fetch William, and we quickly ask him if he is aware of any more disappearances.

"Yes, Sirs," He admits, "One of the guards vanished last night while on Watch, while a chambermaid did not emerge from her quarters this morning."

"That makes five." Wyatt says, "He is one short. How long to the Blood moon?"

I rummage through papers looking for the astronomical discourse. Once found, I must scan through it several times to find the reference, "Tomorrow night, if this prediction is correct."

"So we must track Zaebos throughout the day, and tonight." Cromwell surmises, "Tom - for God's sake, wear a different scent today, or - at the very least - less of it. We cannot be spared in daylight hours; we can only join you after nightfall."

"I am, at least, safe from this ritual." Wyatt smirks, "For the one thing that I am not, is innocent."

* * *

The following day seems interminable, and I cannot concentrate on my work; my thoughts lingering on the five servants who are even now awaiting a cruel demise, and thinking that none will come to their aid. How on earth must _that_ feel? I cannot bear to imagine it, and yet still I cannot stop myself from trying. I achieve little of worth, and am most grateful as the day draws to a close, and we withdraw to join the hunt.

I meet Cromwell at his apartments, and he is once more in his hunting garb. I, too, have now assembled an outfit of black for the same purpose, and he smiles at the sight of it, before inviting me inside.

"Here," he says, lifting a twin to his long silver poniard, "I think it wise that you should not go unarmed any longer. Take this. It shall, henceforth, be your weapon."

His words are strangely formal, and I cannot help but match him, "I thank you, Raven. I shall guard it as well as it shall guard me." Without thinking, I make a small bow, before attaching the weapon to my belt.

He has abandoned the cloak, but wears a snug jerkin over his doublet to keep the chill at bay. His swords are once again set at his back, to keep them out of the way, and his bonnet is set low across his face. I have a similar bonnet, and we resemble a pair of burglars - extremely richly armed burglars.

William has also been patrolling the servants' halls, assisting Wyatt in keeping a close eye on the youngest, most misbegotten of the servants. These are the ones most likely to be innocent - as we know that the term 'innocence' can only mean never having known carnal pleasure. As none of us fit this description, we are safe from abduction, though not from murder if Zaebos catches us unawares. Given how quickly he can move, this is a very real risk, and I cannot help but feel a little unwell at the thought.

We soon leave the wider corridors of the palace behind and are back in the narrow hallways that form the domain of the servants. I know I must find the time to learn my way around this warren, but I have not the time - so I must rely upon Cromwell to guide me. It does not take us long to catch up with William, who advises that he has seen nothing untoward; but, as we know he would no more see it than we would, it can only be his best guess. At least now we have Cromwell's ability to detect ichor - if he can smell that, then we know that we're close. Now that we have joined the hunt, William withdraws back to Cromwell's apartments.

"If Zaebos did not know what I am before," Cromwell advises, softly, "He will almost certainly know by now. Lamashtu will have advised him; no doubt in derogatory terms that refer to my impetuosity."

"She may not fear you," I mutter, almost inaudibly, "But Zaebos _definitely_ should."

Cromwell is about to reply - but then stops dead. Rather than speak, he points to his nose, and I realise that he must be able to smell ichor. I remain absolutely still, fearful that my new weapon might clank against something if I move.

Moving very slowly, he sinks to his knees and peeps around the corner to the space beyond, keeping his head as low as possible in the hope that he will not be noticed. Equally slowly, he rises again, and beckons me to follow. Keeping a tight grip on the poniard, I move too, stepping as softly as I can.

From his ever more cautious movements, I realise that Cromwell is sensing ichor more and more strongly. As we approach another corner, he sinks back to his knees, and views around it at floor level. Then he moves back rather more quickly than he had moved forward, his hand pressed to his head. I need no explanation: Zaebos is ahead of us. Moving with as much care as I can, I get down on the ground and peep round myself. Yes - he is there, and he is with a young girl - her garments proclaiming her to be one of the drudges that are obliged to scrub the floors of the servants halls. She seems very taken by this grandly dressed courtier, and he would seem almost to be wooing her.

I feel a slight pressure on my arm, and I realise that Cromwell has recovered himself. Zaebos is now leading the girl down the passageway, and we must take great care if we are to follow. While we cannot see him if he chooses to move in his odd, compressed fashion, he cannot take her with him; so we can at least see where he is going. As long as he does not see us…

Then Cromwell is leaning on me as - again - he removes his boots. Clearly he never climbs while shod, as he is back up a drainpipe, and on the roofs above in moments. The corridors are not a suitable proposition, so he intends to follow from above. Reduced to the rank of boot-carrier, I wonder how I am to follow _him_. It's only then that I realise someone is behind me, and I whirl round in fright to find Wyatt standing at my shoulder.

"Christ's wounds!" I hiss at him, "Where did you come from?"

"Over there." He whispers, smiling and pointing back up the corridor, "You need to work on your awareness."

"Never mind that. Cromwell's gone up onto the roofs - I have no idea where to follow."

"Do not concern yourself." Wyatt grins, "He will come back for us when he has located Zaebos's lair. Either that or he will just kill Zaebos himself and deny us the fun of participating. He is inclined to be distinctly ungenerous when it comes to kills."

Sure enough, after an unnerving delay, Cromwell is clambering back down from the roof above, and I hand him back his boots. His expression is triumphant, though tinged with distaste. Presumably the girl discovered her mistake as she arrived - and he could not intervene.

"I have it." He advises as he pulls the boots back on, "It is a distant cellar that has not been used in many months - presumably owing to its isolated location. That part of the palace was damaged in a fire last year so none approach it."

"Do we go in tonight?" Wyatt asks, eagerly.

"I think we must not delay." Cromwell concurs, "If the Blood moon falls tomorrow night as predicted, then we shall have achieved nothing by waiting. He emerged a short time after he took her in - so we should be safe to approach."

" _Should_?" I whisper, nervously. Poniard or no poniard, I do not relish a fight.

"Come now, Mr Rich," Wyatt grins, "It'll be fun."

"Who for?" I snap back.

Cromwell rolls his eyes, "When you two have _quite_ finished," He complains, "Perhaps we can see to rescuing these unfortunate servants."

It does not take us long to reach the abandoned buildings, which seem hideously like piles of rotted bones and teeth in the darkness of the night. The moon has become obscured by cloud, and we are in danger of blundering into walls, or through damaged floors. With no alternative, Cromwell hastily fetches out a stub of candle, flint, steel and kindling, and provides us with light.

We smell the cellar before we see it. A room holding several people in close confines for more than a day will not be the most savoury of places, and I for one am eager to retrieve those held within as quickly as we may - simply to avoid being stuck with the reek of waste that will almost certainly permeate our clothes once we emerge.

The door is locked, which is no surprise. Cromwell turns to Wyatt, "Tom - you do it. My hands are still stiff from the climb."

Immediately, Wyatt crouches, pulling some picks from his scrip. It takes him only a moment to unlock the door, and we are in. Below us, all is dark, but for shufflings, whimperings and the sounds of imprisonment. The smell is revolting, and none of us are able to restrain ourselves from choking slightly, and Wyatt briefly gags, before forcing himself to swallow as we advance.

There are six people in the cellar, five of them are the lowest ranking servants, while one is a young palace guard. All of them are rigid with fear at the sight of us, as none of them know who we are. Our hopes of a quick exit are stalled by the realisation that they are all chained together, and then to the wall. Again, Wyatt sets to with picks, while Cromwell stands over him with the candle so that he can see his work. The manacles are in reasonable condition, so it does not take him as long as it feels to unlock them all.

Hastily, for we all feel the nervous dread that Zaebos might return at any moment, Cromwell ushers the group to the stairs and up to the yard above. At first, none of them seem to want to move - but one of them, a youth with a birthmark splashed across his face, starts to get the others moving, and they finally follow Wyatt to the exit.

Our every move feels as though it is being watched, and I cannot shake the conviction that Zaebos will be waiting for us as we emerge - but it is, as usual, my overactive nerves. He has assumed he is safe, and gone to his quarters for the night. Perhaps he is even kneeling before his sigil, reporting that he has all in place for the morrow. He will not be pleased when he finds that we have spoked his wheel.

With nowhere else to take the group, we converge upon Cromwell's apartments. None of the six have seen such sumptuous accommodation, as they are all far too lowly to be admitted into the higher levels of the Palace. They all stare about in amazement at the carpets, hangings and fine wooden furniture. Despite the fact that the whole lot of them stink to high heaven, William offers them warmed cider, and bread, and seats them in a mismatched collection of chairs that he has assembled.

Not a single one of them has spoken a word at any point other than the youth with the birthmark. He seems quite eager to talk, so Cromwell turns to him, "Were you told anything by your captor?"

"Not much, Sir," the youth says, "We was told that we was going to bring about a new Queen - and that it would be a great thing that we was doing." He shows us the back of his hand, "We all got these marks on us."

The mark he bears is a strange design - which appears to have become embedded in the skin like a tattoo. Cromwell nods, "It looks like a Witch-mark. That is actually better than it might sound - for there will now not be time to assemble six more people and set the mark upon them before tomorrow's Moonrise."

"Which one of you is Dickon?" I ask, suddenly. Perhaps I am not as surprised as I thought I might be when the same youth raises his hand. "Molly is well," I go on, "We've moved her to another house for safety. She wouldn't believe that you'd run away. It's thanks to her that we knew that you were in trouble."

His face shows such relief, that Cromwell immediately adds, "I think we should send you there, too. Goodwife Dawson will appreciate the help - as long as I increase her household budget to cover it."

"What about the others?" Wyatt asks. "Would it not be best to keep them safe, too - for the time being?"

"Do _you_ want to tell Goodwife Dawson to expect five more pairs of hands?" I grin at him, "You are a braver man than I!"

It seems so simple - a single night's work, and we have hamstrung Zaebos. Wyatt and I feel quite jubilant - but Cromwell's expression is less pleased. Even if Zaebos is neutralised, we still have to dispatch him. And then, Lamashtu is waiting. It is not over yet. Not by half.


	18. His Grace must not Know

 

In order to avoid any incidents, Wyatt and William oversee the removal of the six abductees from the Palace immediately. Rather than disturb Goodwife Dawson with yet more arrivals, William is instead to take them to the nearby Austin Friars - Cromwell's actual home when not at court. As it is larger, and more well appointed, they will be more easily accommodated for the short time that they are to be away.

"Admit it, Thomas," Wyatt grins, "You just want to avoid being shouted at again."

"I have faced evils more dreadful than you could ever imagine, Tom," Cromwell replies, easily, "but they all pale into insignificance when compared to Margaret Dawson in full flow. Believe me, I know where I stand."

Wyatt laughs merrily, and begins to usher our unexpected guests out. Before he closes the door, he leans back in, "I'll make sure they all have baths." Then hastily shuts it to avoid another flung napkin.

"So. What now?" I ask Cromwell, who is returning chairs to their proper places, before he drops some dried marjoram on the fire to try to dispel the rather unpleasant atmosphere left by our unfortunately filthy guests.

"We wait, I suppose." He replies, "I imagine Zaebos will not discover his loss until morning - or possibly even this evening when he goes to perform the ritual and finds his sacrifices gone. At that point, I have no doubt that he will be most keen to discuss matters with me. It would be a great surprise to me if he does not manage to deduce our involvement."

I say nothing, but I cannot help but feel a little sick. Cromwell might be able to fend off an angry revenant, but I cannot. He clearly notices my silence, and immediately understands the reason for it, "I left you unprotected once, Richard. Not again. You are my Second, and defending your welfare is above all. We shall remain in each other's company today. Or, if not, remain in the offices. He shall not be fool enough to confront us there."

There is no scorn in his voice, far from it. Instead, he seats himself opposite me, and continues, "I think we must find time to teach you how to defend yourself more than you are able at present. You carry a sword on official business, but know little of how to use it. That must change. As soon as this business is settled, Tom and I shall commence some training. I may have sought you out for your mind, but I need you to stand at my side as more than a source of knowledge. Even Wolsey could use his fists if the need arose - but I would prefer you to be able to use blades if possible."

"Not silver ones." I say, firmly.

There is little point in sleep - the hour is too near dawn. As Wyatt and William shall not be back until later today at the very earliest, I decide to risk the short journey from Cromwell's apartments to my own. He promises to call upon me at the hour of eight, to break our fast, and then we shall go to the offices together. I am not sure whether to be grateful or offended over the offered protection.

A few torches light the way - but most have now burned down. I begin to regret my decision to return to my own quarters almost within a few paces of leaving; but I have made clear my intentions to do so, and it seems childish to scurry back to Cromwell's door. Much as I find that I want to.

Then, with no warning, a hand grasps my right arm with painful tightness and I am flung into the wall of the passageway with such violence that my head hits the plaster hard, and I am momentarily dizzy. With my head spinning, I put up no resistance as I am marched down the passageway a few more paces. A door ahead opens, and I am flung into the chamber beyond to go sprawling upon the floor. I have no time to rise, as a heavy weight pinions me down and I cannot move, no matter how much I try to struggle.

"Where are they, you vile little pen-scratcher?" the voice hisses, enraged; and I feel myself go horribly cold with fear: Mortimer, "It took me _weeks_ to get innocents - those little animals fornicate like rabbits! The blood moon is tonight - how in hell's name did you know?"

I feel the heat of his breath on the back of my neck, and I cannot find words to answer his question, either lies or the truth. Cromwell's poniard is still at my waist; but my arms are pinned down, and I cannot reach it. _God help me…oh God…_

I hear the grate of steel - a blade being withdrawn from a sheath. Mortimer, or Zaebos, or whatever he is, leans in close again, "Perhaps your mouth needs to be opened just a little wider. What do you think?" And then there is cold steel against my cheek. Clamping my mouth shut, I turn my head away, but he merely switches the blade to his other hand and threatens the other side of my face. Then I shut my eyes - but that coldness is still there; a feathery sharpness that needs only the slightest pressure to draw blood…

"I need them, you stupid little mortal - or my existence is worthless! And what of your tall cohort? Where is he now that you need him? Hmm?"

"I am here." A second voice answers, and suddenly the pressure upon me is gone. The knife clatters across the floor and I scramble desperately to my feet to flee to the back of the chamber. Cromwell followed me. He must have done, "You shall leave my friends out of this. This is between you and I. No one else."

He has brought one of his swords with him, unsheathed. Despite the King being at Court, he is not interested in rules and laws; not when there is evil to be faced or soul in need of his aid. He does not take his eyes off Zaebos - a deadly, piercing stare that even that vile demon finds intimidating. Glaring, the revenant draws a weapon of his own, a long thing with a rather ostentatious hand-guard. Again, I realise I am to receive a masterclass in swordplay, but I am too trapped for my liking and move as far back as I can. Without hesitation, Cromwell steps further into the room, and places himself firmly in front of me - his sword at the ready.

The fight is brief, and savage - as their swords clash, and fists fly at one another; but Zaebos knows that he is outclassed as every blow he aims is turned aside without difficulty. Compared to Lamashtu, he is easy fare for one so well trained and experienced in fighting such creatures. In minutes, he falls back, snarling viciously, "I shall have your Second, Silver Sword! Or that other fool! One or the other: your head will be mine, I swear it! But I have more important matters to attend to than you - and I shall do so. Lamashtu desires chaos and death, and I shall bring it!" he turns, and is gone.

Immediately, Cromwell turns to me, "Are you well, Richard? Did he harm you?"

"No," I stammer, "I was not expecting him to…" my legs suddenly will not hold me up, and I drop to the floor. I hate myself for being so afraid, but I cannot help it. A demon knows what I am, he wants my life. This is not what I expected…not what I intended…why did I agree to do this? Why did I have to fall asleep over my papers that night? Why did it have to be me?

Cromwell rests his hands on my shoulders, "Easy, Richie - easy. There is no shame in being afraid. As I was afraid for you. I caught the odour of ichor as I saw you out, and I knew I could not let you out of my sight. But I needed one of my weapons, and by the time I had it, he had you."

"He was going to slice into my face…" I manage, eventually, "he wanted me to tell him where the servants had gone."

"And you did not tell him. For that I am grateful. Sometimes courage shows itself in the smallest of ways. Your silence has kept six innocents safe this night."

"But not him." I grunt, feeling altogether better for his compliment.

Cromwell helps me back to my feet, "Perhaps we should commence your training sooner rather than later. I shall talk to Tom when he returns."

The unexpected interruption leaves us closer to dawn than ever, so Cromwell returns his sword to his apartments, changes into clothing more appropriate for the day ahead and then escorts me to my quarters. John is already up - which is no surprise to me - and has a suit of clothing ready for me to change into from the now extremely grubby and rather malodorous outfit that I had so optimistically referred to as my 'hunting' garments when I donned them the previous evening. After the assault that has been visited upon me, I cannot help but wonder if the ensemble deserves the term 'hunted', as opposed to 'hunting'. I find myself feeling resolutely foolish, and utterly out of my depth. So much so, that I am grateful for the hot water in which to wash, as I can feel tears rising again.

We sit down to a simple breakfast of bread with a rather fine sage butter, some cheese and small ale. I thought I would have little appetite after my escapade, but this proves not to be the case. Instead we eat surprisingly well, and our discussions focus entirely upon the work that lies ahead, not the work that lies behind.

Our arrival together generates some more odd looks from the two clerks that are present, until Wriothesley slaps one of them across the back of the head, and threatens the same for the other if they do not get on with their work. In his resolutely ordered mind, there is no earthly reason why the Lord Chancellor and Solicitor General should not be seen in each other's company. Our _volte face_ from enmity to friendship is of no concern to him as long as we do not cause him problems with his own work.

There is a note on Cromwell's desk, held closed by a small smudge of wax and sealed with the King's signet. Frowning slightly, he opens it and reads. Then he sighs.

"What is it?" I ask.

"The King asks me to offer my apartments to some new arrivals at Court." He replies, "I shall need to find somewhere else to rest my head - and the large number of items that I would very much rather were not found. Fortunately, the King's Grace has recently banished a minor noble from court for some infraction or other. Apparently his vacated quarters are now to be mine."

"Who are the new arrivals?" I ask, intrigued.

He re-reads the missive, "Friends of his - from Wiltshire. A John Seymour, his son Edward, and his daughter, Jane - who is to become one of Queen Anne's ladies. Apparently I am to make the offer of the apartments." He frowns for a moment, and then he seems to sag a little.

"What?" I whisper, nervous.

"I think I begin to understand the King's strange mood upon our return from Hampton."

I am briefly confused, and then the same idea dawns upon me. Why offer a group of relatively non-noble strangers such quarters as Cromwell's? Despite the fact that he is frequently absent at night, and must take care not to be seen, his current quarters are not only close to the King's, but are actually linked to them by a private corridor. That is why. And that can mean only one thing - a liaison that his Majesty wishes to keep confidential. A female liaison…

"He means to have her as his mistress?" I ask, my voice down now so low that Cromwell is more or less obliged to guess my words. He does not reply, still reading the letter, but he gives the smallest of nods. As this is to be kept so confidential, we must not be overheard.

"They arrive this afternoon." Cromwell notes, with some concern, "They have lodgings assigned to them in one of the outer courts, so I have time to remove from my own apartments. But I had best be about it, I think." He sighs, "I _liked_ those apartments."

This time, I cannot help myself, and snort with laughter, and Cromwell slaps at me with the letter, which makes the clerks stare at him in surprise. We are behaving like some of those ridiculous young bloods the the King used to have about him, and the boys are absolutely unused to this sort of thing. Normally I would be the one to shout at them if they indulged in such behaviour - and now I am doing much the same myself. I must remember never to berate them like that again. One of them mutters something about a full moon, and they get back to work under Wriothesley's withering glare.

We are, however, obliged to set such matters aside, as one of the guards enters the offices and approaches Cromwell's desk rather nervously. He does not explain why he has come; only that we come with him urgently. Whatever has happened, it is not something that involves the King; but it is clearly unpleasant. With a sigh, Cromwell abandons his work and summons me to follow.

The cause of the problem is, once again, George Boleyn. The agreement he made to leave the chambermaids unmolested has long since been abandoned, and a weeping girl is outside, being comforted by the Mistress of the Maids. She looks furious; this is the second time that she has found herself with a violated girl to rehouse, as Wiltshire wants the girl gone.

Ignoring Wiltshire, Cromwell takes the Mistress and the maid through to an empty chamber nearby. With Rochford still in the room, she is frightened the he might come out and beat her if she says anything. As we need to know what happened before we deal with her assailant, we need her to tell us what took place. Wiltshire attempts to follow us, but, to my surprise, Cromwell asks the guard to allow none to enter, then shuts the door in the Earl's face.

After being seated in a chair, and receiving much gentle coaxing, the girl confirms our worst fears. She had been working in the apartments - which were empty. Then Rochford had burst in upon her, and she could not prevent what followed. There is no need to ask - the bruising on her wrists, and the tears on her cheeks tell us all we need to know.

"What should we do, My lord?" the Mistress asks, "His Grace is demanding that we send the girl away - but I have nowhere to send her. She has no family."

"Then do not." Cromwell advises, "Unless the maid herself wishes to go." He goes down on one knee in front of her so that he can address her directly, "Do you wish to leave the palace?"

She shakes her head, "I've got nowhere to go."

"Then you shall stay." Cromwell tells her, then looks up at the Mistress, "Ensure that her duties from this point on are exclusively in parts of the palace that are closed to Lord Rochford. I shall answer for it if Wiltshire objects. This girl has done nothing wrong and deserves no punishment."

The Mistress takes him to one side, and they confer for a few minutes. When they come back, however, the arrangements are unchanged. I wonder what they discuss, but as soon as they are gone, Cromwell apprises me, "The Mistress is concerned that the girl may be impregnated. If that happens, then we shall make arrangements for her safety and welfare. God willing, she has not been."

I sit down in the vacated chair, "Lord, what a scramble. What is _wrong_ with Rochford? Surely he cannot be so entirely overtaken by Zaebos's influence?"

"It would seem so." Cromwell sighs, "Perhaps this was always there - but it took an evil influence to bring it forth. He is, after all, the son of Thomas Boleyn. It may be that a time would eventually come when he became like his father - but it grieves me to think that. He was such a pleasant man once. I considered him a friend despite loathing Wiltshire."

"What next?" I ask.

"Rochford." Is the terse reply.

Wiltshire is still outside the door, and he is furious. Cromwell, however, ignores his angry blustering over whorish maids and reckless japes in the bedchamber, and instead marches directly into Rochford's quarters, "Did we not make an agreement, George?" He demands, angrily, "Why do you take it upon yourself to abrogate that which I took such time and effort to establish?"

I am not sure what I expect - sheepish admittance? Blustering excuses? But we receive neither. Instead, he glares at Cromwell with mutinous eyes, "I'm not answerable to you, Cromwell. I am the Lord Rochford - and my father is the Earl of Wiltshire. What is that to you - a worthless commoner and tradesman?"

"In matters of the orderly operation of the Court, my Lord," Cromwell continues, "You _are_ answerable. If not to me, then to the King, upon whose authority I act. The chambermaids are not your personal playthings. I doubt that I shall be able to persuade the Mistress to agree to allow any woman into your quarters ever again."

Rochford stands up, and is nose-to-nose with Cromwell, "You have no idea what lies ahead, _Cromwell_." He snarls, "The Queen is with child, and she will bear a son. Then there shall be a new order - and we shall lead it. Beware - if you are not with us, then you are against us. I am sure I can devise a suitable punishment for a traitor as vile as you. Remember Fisher's cook?"

Rather than try to interrupt, Wiltshire is now leaning against the door, blocking our exit, "Do not think that you will escape, Mr Rich." The elder Boleyn adds, looking straight at me, "Guilt can be by association. I would advise you to turn your back on this fading light, and join with us. You would not like the alternative."

I cannot help myself, "Are you suggesting taking the throne?"

Behind me, Rochford laughs, "Once I have a nephew, his petulant Majesty will be…surplus to requirements. We will have a new King, and a great Lord Protector to govern as he grows in the care of his… _dear_ mother." His tone suggests, however, that Anne's involvement would be for appearances only. But what is happening? They cannot possibly be so foolish to think that they can hold our silence - and they cannot act against us. Even they are not so protected that they could safely remove two highly placed court ministers that easily. Anne's position is not that stable.

Rochford snatches up a fine silver goblet and empties it down his throat, the red wine dribbling out either side of his mouth in an astonishingly uncouth fashion. His eyes are shining with almost naked greed, and suddenly I begin to wonder if my assessment is wrong. Perhaps they _do_ intend to kill us - right here and now…

"Mortimer's sacrifices have escaped." Is Cromwell's only response.

To my astonishment, the words have the effect that no others have achieved; both Rochford and Wiltshire stare at him, shocked. Still completely emotionless, he continues, "tonight's ritual will no longer take place. The promises he made will not come to fruition. You had both better hope with all you have that her Majesty bears a son. If not…all that planning, gone to waste." He shakes his head, blatantly false sympathy on his face, "Enjoy thinking about that. The girl is not leaving. You will have to find your own servants from now on. We shall be leaving now."

With that, he walks straight to the door, and waits for Wiltshire to move. Astonishingly, he does so, and we are able to leave.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" I mutter, darkly, as we return to our offices.

"God, yes." Cromwell's smile is surprisingly bright for someone who has just faced down a threat of death, "Come, Mr Rich, I must get my desk cleared so that I can pack. I have an apartment to offer up. I don't want the Seymours finding something they should not."

* * *

Cromwell's new quarters are not perhaps as fine as those he was obliged to give up, but they are still comfortable and well appointed, and he is not as disappointed as he might have been. Besides, they are now closer to mine and Wyatt's, which makes our evening gatherings rather easier to organise given the risks we seem to be facing in travelling between them.

Wyatt is, once again, irked to discover that there has been an altercation at which he was not present. He has not spoken to Rochford at any point since his return from Austin Friars. With the passing of the Blood moon, the captives are now safe to return to the palace, though Molly will remain at Grant's Place, as she is proving to be a most able helper, and Dickon has asked to stay with her. In all cases, the witch marks upon them faded with the passing of the night of the feared moon, and they are once again safe.

John has secured us a fine ham hock to devour with generously spiced frumenty - we do not normally gather for the midday meal, as we are usually too busy to consider eating one. The King, however, has opted not to meet with this Privy Council this morning, so we have not been able to progress with our work. Instead, he has repaired to the tiltyard for some sport, and will be likely to be jousting for much of the day; thus we have time to share the information we have gained.

"I cannot believe that George could have become so hideously merciless." Wyatt admits, pulling at some of the hock to free it from the bone, "He is all but suggesting outright treason against his Majesty."

"They have been acting in conjunction with Zaebos." I advise him, "When Thomas said that the sacrifices had been lost, the wind went right out of their sails. All they have now is the hope that Anne will bear them a son."

"Even that may not be enough." Cromwell sighs, "You were right about the Seymour girl, Richard. He is tiring of Anne's stormy moods and looks to one who is more compliant. Even if Anne were to bear a son, there is no certainty that the marriage could be saved. As his Majesty is so keen to keep his liaison with Jane discreet, my concern is that his feelings are more than just of a man for his mistress."

"Do you think the Boleyns might fall?" Wyatt asks, his eyes suddenly very wide as he senses the threat to his beloved Anne.

"There is no way to tell." Cromwell admits, "The risks they face now that we have stopped the ritual are very real - but much hinges upon the babe in the Queen's womb. If she brings a son into the world, all still may be well for her; though whether her father and brother shall be so fortunate? That is another matter. George was almost mad when we spoke to him. He seemed not to care that his words were treasonous - I cannot help but wonder if he even noticed."

The mood has become quite sombre; Wyatt is now worried about the woman for whom he carries such an immense torch, and the danger she faces concerns us all more than we would like to admit. She has been at the forefront of our own wishes to establish a reformed Church in England; and none of us wish to see her brought down. She cannot, however, be persuaded to be more compliant to the King's wishes; and there are rumours all about court of the dreadful arguments that have occurred at times. Henry values sparks in a mistress - but not in a wife, it seems.

We have been back at our desks for perhaps less than ten minutes when a guard comes rushing in, "My Lord! God have mercy upon us! His Majesty has taken a bad fall at the joust - and he has not woken! The physicians fear for him - the Duke of Suffolk dispatched me to bring the news - what is to be done?"

We stare at one another, all of us, in shock. While the boys are horrified at the accident, and Wriothesley is already starting to evaluate how much paper we are going to need, Cromwell and I share a far more worried expression. This is _exactly_ what Wiltshire desired. Whether it has happened too soon - in that the Queen's son is not yet born - remains to be seen. In a single stroke, the King has given both the Boleyns, and possibly Lamashtu, everything they could possibly have hoped for.

Cromwell does not hesitate. Immediately, he is dispatching the clerks to call in everyone that can be spared from other departments. Bills must be prepared in readiness - to establish the right of the Princess Elizabeth to be crowned, to confirm the Queen as her regent. While he would dearly wish to cut Wiltshire out of the equation, that will not be possible. Norfolk is overseas, and not available to undertake the role of Lord Protector - it would have to be Wiltshire. We both know that, should this come to pass, we are all but signing our lives away.

He is in the midst of preparing a paper to cover the emergency coronation of the Princess, should it be required, when Wiltshire and Rochford appear. As the room is too busy for true feelings to emerge, Wiltshire merely asks what progress has been made, and does not interrupt or say anything untoward as Cromwell advises him of all that has been done. He certainly has no right to complain, for the progress made has been astonishingly quick and efficient. All that remains to be done is to recall Parliament.

"Bah!" Wiltshire snorts, "In the old days, we had no need of Parliaments!"

Cromwell glares at him, "These are not the _old days_ , your Grace." He pauses to blow sand from a paper he has signed, and watches them depart with only half his attention. If the King dies, then it can only get busier from now on.

Two hours have passed since we received the news. I have been bent over my desk for a considerable time since the Boleyns left, and when I next look up, Cromwell has gone.

"He has gone to the Chapel Royal." Wriothesley explains, and I realise that he must have run out of things to draft, sign or order. Now all that remains is prayer, and he has joined the ranks of people who are on their knees - pleading to God to bring their King back to them. I wish I had time to do the same. It would mean that all the work we have done this day was for naught - and a great deal of paper will need to be burned; but, given the alternative, I know which outcome I would prefer.

Then a third hour passes - and finally another guard comes rushing into the offices, "God be praised!" he cries, "The King lives! He is alive!"

It seems that his Majesty was unconscious for only an hour - but, in the excitement do relief at his waking, we were left untold for twice that time, increasing our worry as much as our workload. Despite all that we have done, however, all the papers over which we slaved - that wasted effort; all about me either cry out joyfully, or sink to their knees in relief. I do neither. Still sitting at my desk, I close my eyes and silently thank God for our deliverance. My hand may be cramped from all that writing - but at least I know that we are safe. The King is alive, and Wiltshire has lost his grasp upon the throne. At least for now.

It is another half hour before Cromwell returns, during which time Wriothesley has overseen the collection of all the papers produced in case of the King's death. As it would be treasonous to retain them, they will be burned at the first opportunity. We have been more fortunate than anyone could imagine - but now everyone is thinking one thing, and one alone: _Please God - let the Queen bear us a son. A SON._

We are exhausted, and neither Cromwell nor I have the energy to meet for supper, much to Wyatt's disappointment, "I find you both so entertaining - and I miss having cloth thrown at me. You must ensure that you are well rested. I do so enjoy our little get togethers." He departs to the Hall with a cheerful wave.

As I return to my quarters, I hear it - a whispered conversation between two of the Queen's ladies. They are unaware of my presence, and I freeze.

"Are you sure?" one of them, Madge Shelton by the sound of it, hisses.

"Most certainly," the other sounds to be Nan Cobham, "she came upon them in the King's chamber - brazen as anything. She was seated upon his lap!"

"Hush!" Madge says, nervously, "Do you want a slap for gossiping?"

"Why else was she brought here?" Nan continues, "If not to be a new doxy for his Majesty? Prim little Miss Seymour - not perhaps so prim after all?"

"But she must be careful!" Madge says, fearfully, "She cannot risk her child, a shock might bring disaster!"

"Perhaps but…" Nan suddenly stops, "Someone's coming - quickly, we must not be overheard."

Fortunately, their footsteps lead away from me, and I continue to my chambers to prepare for bed - and I must admit that I give the matter not another thought.

It only returns to me the following morning, when I reach the offices, and discover that the Queen has lost the child.

* * *

When Cromwell arrives, it is clear that he has been with the King - and his expression is grave. We have only the barest details of the night's events, but no one dares to ask him what he discussed. Not even I. He pauses only to speak quietly to Wriothesley - probably something practical - and then retires to his desk, reaches for paper and a quill and begins to write.

I know that, as his Second, he will tell all to me - but not here. I must instead wait for this evening. Sure enough, as the day draws to a close, Cromwell stops at my desk to invite me to supper, before he departs. I will follow as soon as I have finished my work.

When I arrive at his quarters, I discover that he wishes only to talk to me. Wyatt has not been invited; so the conversation must centre upon the Queen; and in a manner to which Wyatt will object. I cannot help but sigh to myself as we sup in silence. It is not an uncomfortable quiet - as I know that Cromwell has never been one to fill up silences with pointless conversation, so I do not expect it - but instead companionable. He clearly does not wish to be alone, as something is burdening him. Once we have eaten, he will tell me.

We retire to the fireside with cups of warmed hippocras, and finally he speaks, "Forgive my silence, Richard. My discussion with his Majesty this morning was not pleasant, nor was my discovery of the remnants of ichor about the Queen's chambers. I felt it was worth the risk of investigating, though I know that she would have been enraged to see me at her door."

I sigh. While I have never been privy to their previous dealings with one another, I am aware that she has not taken kindly to some aspects of his work in relation to the King's requirement to bring the Religious Houses to heel. Their falling out is not widely known, but she no longer considers him to be someone with whom she would consort. Despite this, he still considers her to be a remarkable woman, and does not wish her ill - unlike her father. I think we would both relish the opportunity to bring down the vile Wiltshire; but not his daughter, who is innocent in all of this intrigue. The fact, however, that he could detect ichor about her chambers can only mean one thing, "Do you think Lamashtu has interfered?"

He nods, "The physicians have examined the…offspring." He sighs, "I was not offered the opportunity to do so, and would not have wished to even if I had been. But it appears that she would have borne a boy." He stops again, and I know that there is more, "Apparently, there was an abnormality."

I sit back, and expel a lungful of air nervously, "I can only imagine what his Majesty had to say about that."

"I do not have to," Cromwell says, his gaze now firmly fixed on the flames in the grate, "He said it to me - he holds the Queen entirely responsible for the loss of his son - and is already reconsidering the validity of his marriage; even to the point that he considers himself to have been bewitched."

" _Bewitched?_ " I exclaim, "By what? His humours?" Surely he is not using _that_ old excuse for his own lusty behaviour?

Cromwell doesn't reply, and I know that things are becoming darker by the minute. There is one task that he has not yet been asked to undertake, but we both know that it is now almost inevitable.

"What does he intend to do?"

His eyes are still on the flames of the fire, "At this point, he has not said. But it is only a matter of time." Then he turns to look at me, and his eyes are almost fearful, "He has already divested himself of one wife - and it cost Wolsey his life. When the time comes, and come it shall, that he decides to divest himself of this one; there is only one person to whom he shall turn to find a means to do it."

I shudder. We both know to whom he is referring - but he is not alone; he shall need legal counsel, and that is my job. Regardless of my less orthodox work, my position as Solicitor General shall require my involvement in any investigation into the Queen's conduct - presumed or otherwise. Even in our daylight dealings, I can still be his Second, "No. Two. There are two. Whatever we must do, we shall do - and you shall not do this alone. I am with you."

He smiles, faintly, "Be careful, Richie - most careful. We must walk into some very dark places if we are to carry this out. I am not sure you will not live to regret the commitment you have made to me. We shall be expected to find evidence - even if none exists. Are you prepared to do that?"

I nod, "Did I not do that once before?"

He sighs as he remembers dispatching me to entrap Thomas More, "What the King demands, the King must have - no matter what crimes are committed to bring it about. I would advise you to consider this with real care. If you are to walk this path with me, I cannot be certain that you will not emerge from it hating either me, or yourself."

"I am your Second." I insist, stoutly, "If I am unable to do this, then I do not deserve the title."

Cromwell looks relieved for a moment, but only a moment. While I have no doubt he relishes the opportunity to strike Wiltshire down, he does not wish the same for his children; not even George. But until we know the King's wishes - the point is moot.

Now we must wait.


	19. Dark Alliance

 

We are obliged to wait but two days before the order comes. Cromwell returns to the offices, his expression grim, and I know that the King has now tasked us with finding evidence to end his now unwanted marriage. As we are not aware that there _is_ any evidence, we must start from nothing. If we fail to find anything, then our own heads will be at risk - Cromwell is all too aware of Wolsey's fate after his failure to end the marriage to the late Queen Katherine. I have no doubt that he shall do all he can to protect me from falling with him - but if he falls…

We repair to Cromwell's apartments once more - and again we do not invite Wyatt. We cannot afford to, or he will take what steps he can to protect the woman he loves. I hate the secrecy, and I know I am not alone in doing so, but we have no choice.

While William has provided us with victuals, neither of us feel able to face them, and the dishes are left untouched at the table as we instead sit by the fire, making do with the claret. It is still some time before Cromwell speaks.

"His Majesty is still quite convinced that he has been beset by witchcraft."

Even if I were not now inducted into this strange new world, I would consider such a suggestion to be nonsense. The king has been a victim of his own randy loins, not some hex or other - and we both know it. If we are to find anything, then it is to be something altogether more human - and that means some other transgression.

"We shall have to question her ladies, I think." I murmur, looking into the flames rather more fixedly than I should like, as the flames are quite bright, and leave white shapes that continue to dance in my vision when I look away.

Cromwell nods, "That is not something that sits well with me; but we need to start somewhere; and there is nowhere else to start. Who else has such unfettered access to the Queen and her doings?"

He is stating the obvious, but placing it into words does not make it sound any more chivalrous. Threatening women…what are we coming to?

"Who did you overhear gossiping?" Cromwell asks, after an uncomfortable pause.

"Madge Sheldon and Nan Cobham." I supply, quietly.

He sighs, "Then we shall start with them." He looks at me again, "This is your last chance, Richard - if you do not feel you can follow me into this place, then say so now. This will not look well on either of us, nor will it be pleasant to undertake. If we are successful, then I could not say now who shall be toppled, whether they be guilty or guiltless. This may lead us far further into the valley of the shadow of death than you would wish to travel - and I do not want to place that burden upon you. I am willing to take the blame for this on my own head; you do not have to add yours."

"You forget, Thomas," I remind him, quietly, "Regardless of my own wishes, even if I were to accept your offer, which I would not, I am the Solicitor General, and his Majesty has charged me with this task as much as you. I must be present as well. I am also now your Second, and if it is my role to stand at your side, then I shall do so. I know that we must accept consequences for our actions - and I am ready."

I think he tries to smile at me, but he mostly fails. We are about to walk, and take others with us, into a mire of suffering, and we must do so at the King's command. Who shall emerge, and who shall be engulfed, remains to be seen.

The interrogations of the ladies are polite enough at the start, but as I sit to one side and listen, I find myself shuddering at the cold menace in Cromwell's voice as he speaks to them. Some are more loyal than others - not that any of them are actively disloyal - and none of them will say anything against the Queen. Except for Madge; not because she has any ill will towards her mistress - but because she has shown fear. And that has been her undoing. Cromwell proves to be an expert interrogator, and he is far quicker-witted than those he questions. Madge's words are turned about and twisted in all directions, until she knows not whether she is coming, or going. And then she begins to let things slip - probably entirely innocent foolery, but in the right context…deadly accusations.

After she departs from the chamber in which we have questioned her, we sit down and compare notes, for she has said much - even if she did not mean to, "So," I say, quietly, "She has suggested flirtings with the Queen's lute-boy - Mark Smeaton, Sir Henry Norris…" I stop, confused, "But was he not supposedly courting Madge herself?"

"Apparently not." Cromwell remarks, dryly, "There is also Brereton, and Weston. Did you mark her comments about Rochford?"

I shake my head, "I suspect that Madge does not have brothers, or she is not close to those that she has. Otherwise she would see the familiarity that can exist between siblings. To my mind, there is nothing more than that, and I fear she was trying to find statements that she thought would please us, so that she would be permitted to leave."

Other ladies, once confronted with the four names, begin to buckle under the relentless questioning. I have no wish to allow Cromwell to do this on his own, and it is as I am questioning Margery Horsman that she reveals the one name we did not want to hear: Thomas Wyatt.

I turn to Cromwell, who is not looking at the woman - he has closed his eyes, a sigh visibly dropping his shoulders. We knew this would be a risk, but we are now faced with the reality. One of the Queen's ladies has implicated him along with the three others - and again there is that nervous mention of Rochford, and his overfamiliarity with the queen's person. She then adds more - it appears that the Queen, and her brother, may have been intimate - but she insists she saw nothing of this herself. The words instead are claimed to have come from the Countess of Worcester, who supposedly saw such acts.

Had we not seen how dreadful Rochford had become, then we would never have believed it. Cromwell, however, still looks sceptical; as, while he could believe it of the darkness-infected Rochford, he would never accept such behaviour as being possible from the unaffected Anne.

Then we speak to Lady Rochford.

Despite all that she has endured at his hands, she does not speak out against him. Does she love him? Or is she so browbeaten that she cannot bring herself to spite him even when the opportunity is there? I do not know - but she does, after much prompting, admit that she had overheard her husband, and Queen Anne, discussing matters pertaining to the King's abilities in matters carnal - and that is not merely scandalous, but treasonous.

Over the past week, we have heard many rumours, overseen the mopping up of many tears - but we are left only with gossip, supposition and circumstantial evidence that would not be enough to convince anyone that the King's marriage was either invalid, or endangered by behaviour contrary to the marriage vows made. We do, however, have five names…

"Six." Cromwell corrects me, sadly, as I mention my count to him.

"Thomas…" I turn to him, dismayed, "Surely you do not mean to have Tom arrested, too?"

"What choice do I have?" He asks, bitterly, "I tried with all I had to prevent this - but Tom would not let it go. It is no more than calf love - of that I am convinced, but he has not been discreet in his worship. There are verses that say much, even if little was done. All know of them. If I am to order the arrest of men whose names have been mentioned in passing, how can I not arrest one whose activities are known and commented upon?"

He is right - we both know it, and I sit down; feeling a little sick, "What do we do now?" I ask.

"Start at the bottom, and work up." Cromwell says, grimly, "We need more than mere rumour. We must have accusations proper - and that can come only from one of the six."

"You mean Smeaton." I look at him, nervously. If he intends to start with the lowest born of the group, then that means that we must use stronger measures than mere questioning. Now I am truly beginning to understand why he offered me so many opportunities to step away from this.

Cromwell looks at me, and I know he is going to try again, so I raise my hand to stop him, "No, Thomas - I made my commitment. I must see it through - regardless of where it leads us. If we must do this, then we must do it, and wear the consequences as best we may when all is done. The King demands it, and you must deliver it; but I shall stand with you as you do so."

He sighs, and nods. I may yet live to regret my choice - but it is made.

* * *

I sleep badly, and my waking in the morning is dull and unrefreshed. I have no idea if Cromwell intends to move against the accused men today - so I break my fast alone and then make my way to the offices, where I have no doubt much paper has accumulated during our time interviewing the Ladies in Waiting.

Wriothesley looks both relieved, and irritated, when I arrive, as I know he has been obliged to shoulder much of the paperwork while I have been busy. He has nothing much to report on the work that is ongoing, so I repair to my desk - though I note that Cromwell has not arrived at his yet. As I am later than usual, thanks to my bad night, I am surprised. Where has he gone? Is he with the King? God above, I am turning into his mother…

He does not come into the offices until gone midday, and his expression suggests that he has been busy - but also that he does not wish to discuss the matter. I do not feel able to press the point with him, as he refuses to speak to anyone for nearly two hours; until, eventually, he comes to my desk, and asks me to join him. We do not, however, go back to his desk. Instead, I follow him out of the offices and he ushers me into an empty chamber. Whatever he is about to say, I suspect that I am not going to like it.

"I took Smeaton into custody this morning." He says, after an uncomfortable pause, "I invited him to my chambers - and began the interrogation there."

"In my absence?" I demand, irked that he has acted without me.

"I did not want you to be associated with it, and I wished to catch him off guard in the hope that surprise might loosen his tongue before I needed to adopt sterner measures." He admits, "He did not, and I was obliged to take further steps. It was…unpleasant."

"What did you do?"

Cromwell looks at the wall opposite, "He no longer has his left eye."

" _What_?" I cannot believe this, "You put him to torment in your own chambers? What were you thinking? You cannot act extrajudicially in such matters! Why did you not come to me? We should have arrested him properly and questioned him in the Tower!"

"The King is becoming impatient. He wants rid of his wife - if he does not get what he wants…" Cromwell finally turns to me, an almost helpless expression on his face, "I have nothing but rumours to offer him - and we must have more. _I_ must have more - or you shall have to greet a new Silver Sword before the end of the month."

He is not specifically afraid - not for his own skin; I am sure of that. It is more fear for me, and the burden that his loss would place upon me. I have not been his Second for more than a few months at best - I cannot fight, I do not know my way about Wolsey's library. Wyatt is in the Tower, so I have no one. If I lose the Raven, then I am truly lost myself, and who will stand against Zaebos, and then Lamashtu? No - it is not for himself that he fears - it is failure, and leaving an untrained Second to face the fire alone. And that makes me afraid, too.

I grasp his arm, tightly, "Enough. You shall do no more on your own. Whatever happens from this moment on, it _must_ be done with me at your side. Promise me. What is the point of my being your Second if you do not make use of me in that capacity? I will _not_ be overruled again." My angry firmness surprises even me; but I know that he has acted rashly, probably in fear of the King's threat - whatever that might have been. It cannot happen again - and now it is my job to make sure that it does not.

"You know what we must do then." Cromwell says, quietly. I nod. As a commoner, Smeaton is the weakest link. He can be tortured, as the nobles cannot. It is cruel - horribly so, but true. None of the nobles are likely to confess - so we must turn to the one who can be persuaded to do so - even by such means.

He straightens up, and it is as though another man is standing there - that vulnerability has gone; only the ruthless exterior remains visible. Now he is truly the Raven, and he will act with the singlemindeness of a predator.

* * *

The corridor is dark, and the whole place reeks - of nightsoil, piss and God knows what else. But where it leads is to a hell far worse, and I am more grateful than I can express that my station keeps me from being here in any other capacity. The chamber is smoke filled, lit with flaming torches. Beside me, Cromwell is impassive, silent. Had I not spoken to him earlier, I should have thought that he was truly inhuman, for he seems disinterested in the pitiful circumstances of the man he is to question as we enter.

Smeaton is already on the rack, his fine jewels and garments long gone. All he wears now is a loincloth - and that is more for our benefit than for his - as none of us are particularly interested in watching his member twitching as the men at the cranks prepare to work. He is, as one would expect, stricken with absolute terror, for he knows what is to come - and yet he has not confessed to any crime. So many who see this ghastly instrument buckle and begin to tell all at the moment it appears in sight - but not him. I attempt as best I can to emulate Cromwell's inscrutable expression, as I have no wish to destroy the atmosphere that he has so carefully created - not all of Smeaton's fear is of the instrument upon which he lies; no, some of it rests on the man who stands over him, dressed in black and absolutely without compassion.

"I ask you again." He says, horribly coldly, "When did you first have carnal knowledge of the Queen?"

Smeaton stammers, but words do not form. Looking up again, Cromwell nods. The men at either end begin to turn the wheels. At present, all that creaks is the ropes - but we all know that will not be for long. Now the youth utters a sharp cry, as he feels the pull on his limbs, and cannot pull back, or stop it. The words that are finally coming from him are pleas - to stop…to have mercy…

But there is none. Cromwell remains utterly cold and silent. His question has not been answered. He nods again. How? How has he the strength to do this? I am not sure that I could…

Again, the wheels turn, and again Smeaton screams out. Still absolutely remorseless, Cromwell looks down at the frantic boy; clearly interested only in hearing the answer to the question he has asked, "When," He says, slowly and with horrible emphasis, "did you have carnal knowledge of the Queen? You have but to tell me, and this shall cease. All that is required is one word from me, and you can be released."

Smeaton whimpers, in tears, "I have not, Mr Cromwell, I swear…I swear…" his voice falters into sobs.

Straightening up again, Cromwell's face is still hard, and he nods a third time, but this time turns away. And then it happens - with a sickening crunch, a joint dislocates somewhere on Smeaton's body - possibly more than one. I cannot stop myself from cringing at the hideous scream that follows - pitched so high that I could not imagine that it comes from a man's throat. But there are more joints yet to break, and the stillness of the man beside me suggests that, unless Smeaton starts talking, and soon - they will not be long in coming apart, either.

Then, at last, he cracks. Weeping copiously, the boy tells us what we want to hear. Whether or not it is the truth seems to matter not - and he confirms all that Cromwell asks him. Yes - he has had carnal knowledge of the Queen, as has Henry Norris, and Brereton, and Weston - and Boleyn, too. Yes, Boleyn - she has…and he suddenly pukes violently, causing one of the rack-hands to leap back with a furious curse. It is only in that moment that I realise that he has not implicated Wyatt. But then, Cromwell has not asked him to.

Still completely impassive, Cromwell nods to the rack-men again, but this time they begin to release Smeaton, who appears to have fainted. I turn to see what he intends to do, but he does not look at me - instead he turns on his heel and stalks out of the chamber. Wherever he is heading, I am not intended to follow. I suppose he must be going to inform the King so that he can effect the remaining arrests.

I have no reason to remain in the chamber either, as the two rack-men extricate Smeaton from his bonds. Instead, I decide to return to Placentia, and find a wherryman to take me. The wind is rather chill, or so it seems to me, and I bundle myself up in my cloak, though I am reminded of the horrid nakedness of Smeaton, as he lay helpless - and that ghastly cracking that his joints made as they came apart…I shake myself: furious - this will not do. I must be cold and implacable, for what use am I as a Second if I cannot set my feelings aside as Cromwell does?

The Wherryman delivers me to the watergate at Greenwich, and make my way straight to my apartments. As I go, I can still hear that ghastly shriek - and lights are flickering around the edges of my vision. I feel increasingly sick as I finally reach the door, but that is nothing compared to a strange buzzing that has begun in my ears. I turn to John, who looks at me with such a shocked expression that I wonder what I must look like - and then the room turns over, and I know nothing more.

* * *

My next recollection is of a damp cloth on my forehead, and I find myself lying on my bed. I wonder how I got there, and John is hovering nearby, looking worried, "Forgive me, Sir - but you fainted. I took the liberty of making you more comfortable."

I fainted? I am bemused - why would I have done that? It is not as though I have never attended a racking before - nor been in such a smoke-befouled chamber. I try to sit up, but the room starts to spin again, and I sink back down onto the pillows. Perhaps I was on my feet for too long - and I did not dine…perhaps that was it…

The next thing I know, it is dark. It seems that I have been unconscious again - am I ill, then? Or maybe it is lack of sleep. I have not rested well for many nights - so maybe that is why. I turn my head, and suddenly realise that, while I am not alone, the man sitting at my bedside is not John. It is Cromwell.

"I went to the King." He says, quietly, "Norris, Brereton, Weston and Rochford are all arrested." He pauses, and I know there is more.

"Tom?" I ask. I am not surprised when he nods.

"What do we do?" I continue.

"As we did with Smeaton." He says, a cold, dead look in his eyes, "Question them. Seek evidence of their activities with the Queen."

I can almost see him thinking it, over and over again: _The Mission is All_.

"Wiltshire is also arrested." Cromwell adds, "The King believes that he must be involved in some way or other - probably in placing Anne so thoroughly under his nose."

"And if they deny all?"

"Smeaton's confession is all that we need. Their denials would change nothing now - but they may yet offer up more. We shall find out on the morrow." His expression is hard, angry. I wonder if he will hunt tonight - after today, to dispatch a ravener would be a welcome prospect. I do not wish to follow him, however, for already, I am becoming drowsy again. The next thing I know, he is gone.

I feel much better as I wake with the dawn, and the dizziness has gone. I am also ravenously hungry, and the sight of the bread and cheese that awaits is most welcome. Fully recovered, I return to the offices, as I have no indication from Cromwell that he requires my presence. As he is at his desk when I arrive, I wonder when we shall commence questioning the men who now await us in the Tower. The clerks are all nervous: they know that he has acted momentously - albeit on the King's business - and his cold expression does not invite levity. They creep about, doing their work as quietly as they can, while Wriothesley looks up now and again with a rather worried air - though, in his case, he is likely to be concerned that he faces unexpected work in great quantity rather than anything else.

It is after midday before we finally board a wherry to return to the Tower. The chill that I felt yesterday is gone, and I realise that it was not the weather, but my own sense of chill, that had obliged me to bundle myself up in my cloak. Cromwell says nothing as we travel; that awful, hawk-like expression still on his face. I have no idea if he hunted last night, but if he did, it had no beneficial effect.

The first of the arrested men we visit is Rochford. The very moment that he enters the chamber in which we sit, I realise that whatever had made him so reckless when we saw him last has gone. He looks lost, frightened and confused - and this is not the deadly Lord Rochford who threatened the King, but poor George Boleyn - the cheerful, merry brother who had sighed over Wyatt's poetry, and teased his sister. It is immediately obvious: Zaebos has abandoned them, and they are truly lost.

I look across to Cromwell, who gives no sign that he has noticed the change. Instead, he leans over the trembling Boleyn, and his words are of the rumoured incest, which we cannot substantiate, but then the suggestion that he had conspired to murder the King, and set up Anne's child in his place - a child who was almost certainly not even his Majesty's. His voice is cold, detached and grim; his expression a strange mix of benign enquiry and incisive focus. I feel horribly chilled again, a thrill of real horror running down my spine. God forbid that I should ever face interrogation from this man: he is terrifying - and George is duly terrified. He sheds panicked tears, weeping in anguish at the charges with which he is being indicted. Does Rochford really not remember his behaviour over the last few weeks? We both heard his threats to the King's life - but he seems to have no idea why Cromwell is saying such things and denies all with tearful vehemence.

As our interrogations progress, over a period of days, the others are equally close mouthed - but as their confessions would be merely a decorative flourish to the case that we have, thanks to Mark Smeaton, it matters but little. Norris is particularly determined to fight us - but then Cromwell seems to leap forward, and smashes his fists down on the table between them, "And yet, is it not true that the Queen _herself_ was heard to say that you came to her apartments not to pay court to Madge Sheldon, but instead to _her_?"

I am glad that I am standing behind Norris - for his shock is almost as great as mine. Cromwell is glaring into his eyes now with such intensity, that I feel my legs almost begin to turn to water, and I dread to imagine how Norris must feel.

I wish I could be elsewhere - anywhere else; but given the length of time we spend at each interview, and the deliberately random manner in which they are commenced and concluded, we do not return to Placentia each night, and are instead lodged in some of the finer guest quarters at the Tower. Consequently, I do not have the peace of the journeys back and forth to compose and settle my thoughts between each one of these horrible interviews. I am already uncomfortable with our work - and being unable to return to the now-familiar surroundings of my quarters adds a sense of dislocation that I find deeply unsettling.

It only gets worse as we then move on to interview Thomas Boleyn - who sits before Cromwell like a mouse before a snake. All of his pride is gone - along with his titles and prestige - and he can do nothing but stammer and bluster. I am not surprised to hear him disown his son and daughter, and pile all the blame upon them; for are not all those who bully truly cowards inside? Again, the Raven stands over the man who had once treated him as little better than a personal servant, and Boleyn shrinks even more into himself under that dreadful glare. Boleyn has driven so many from Court, some to their deaths - but now the reckoning has come, and he is nothing more than a whining jackanapes who would throw his children to the wolves if it would save his own skin. If I did not despise him before, as Cromwell did, then I do now. Would I be so craven? God help me, I hope not.

His expression dreadful, Cromwell leans in close to Boleyn, "I often wondered, should it come down to it, which of us would survive. I have my answer. You have condemned your children out of your own mouth - and you may not have done enough yet to save yourself, as I have no doubt that to do so was your intention. Think on that while you sleep tonight. If you can." He straightens again, turns on his heel and, with nothing more than a curt nod to me to follow him, sweeps out.

Our journey back to Placentia is silent. Cromwell glares at the boards of the wherry without comment, and I find myself contemplating our awful stay at the Tower, and the consequences that shall now follow. Even as we part at the watergate, it being my turn to pay off the Wherryman, he says nothing to me and I do not know what he is thinking. He is back: that other Thomas Cromwell - the man that I hated: cold, inscrutable, impossible to read or to know. That camaraderie we have shared, his kindness to me - all seems to be from another time, long ago. I am beginning to wonder if I really know him at all.

* * *

Cromwell is not permitted to be involved in the arrest of the Queen. While she is obliged to relinquish that title, even after she does so, she remains a Marquess in her own right; so that duty must fall to one of her own kind: a peer in both senses of the word. It is the Duke of Suffolk who is granted this task - but, as Solicitor General, I am obliged to accompany him - thus Cromwell expects me to make my report to him when we are done.

She is sitting amongst her ladies when we arrive in her apartments, each working at an embroidery. I was never privy to her personal activities in these chambers, which - I am told - used to be alive with music, dancing and merriment. Today, it is as though they are awaiting the return of their menfolk from a funeral.

We enter, and bow. At this moment, she is still Queen, and all courtesies must be observed. Though she asks us why we have come, it is blatantly clear that she does so only for form's sake; and that she knows already why we are there. After all, her brother, father, lute-boy and three courtiers are all arrested. She is no fool, and never has been. To her, this is just the arrival of the inevitable.

His expression grave, Brandon informs her of her arrest, and reads the charges to her. He has not said a word to me since we were dispatched to her apartments together, and I feel certain that he loathes me for my part in all of this. But then, he is a Subject, as I am - but he is _not_ a Servant, as I am. The King wills - the King must have.

It then falls to me to advise her that she is to be conducted to the Tower to be held there at the King's pleasure. I can almost feel the hostility from the Duke as I speak. Does Brandon realise that I am hating this, too? Perhaps he does not - I don't imagine he gives my feelings even the lightest consideration, so why should he think that I am? I have little doubt that she is innocent - as are Smeaton, Norris, Brereton and Weston. Her only guilt has been to earn the King's wrath by being herself and failing to bear him a son. Her brother and father are more guilty - but they were under a malign influence that tempted them and left them abandoned to fall from their positions of grace. And I can tell no one of that - for none would believe it. The only factor of which I am truly uncertain is what Cromwell feels about it all. Does he hate this too? I am no longer sure that I know.

The Queen does not demur - but stands calmly, her ladies rising with her. She starts to order them to assist her preparations for departure, but Brandon does not give her time to do so. She is to leave - now. And none of her ladies are to accompany her: all her material needs shall be met by the Crown. This also makes me uncomfortable - for the women who will see to her needs have been selected by Cromwell with the strict instructions that they report to him all that she says while in custody.

Her composure holds as we depart the Palace aboard one of the less ostentatious barges - she is not expected to ride in a wherry, at least. It only begins to falter as we escort her into the Tower, and the gates close behind her: she turns to implore us to speak to the King on her behalf. I wish that we could. God help me, I wish that we could…

Cromwell is sitting quietly in his apartments when I return, and my report to him is perfunctory, and short. After the Queen's magnificent bravery in the face of our actions against her, I struggle to be in the same room as he - for he remains impassive, emotionless. How can he be so cold? We have sent six - possibly _seven_ \- people to almost certain death; and yet he says nothing more than he must, and seems utterly indifferent over their fates. I am glad to leave, and wish I had no reason to return.

It takes a few weeks to prepare for the trials, and throughout, Cromwell receives written reports from the spies he has set upon the former Queen in her confinement. The men are tried first; but, as commoners, we are not welcome, and not even I, as Solicitor General, am called to speak. Perhaps they recall my woeful perjury at More's trial and have no wish to risk accusations of a similar act against defendants whose true guilt is as precarious in terms of truth as his was. Instead, Cromwell's evidence has been put before the Lords sitting in judgement, and - as we expected, for the Lords know to accede to the King's will as much as we do - all have been found guilty. Except for one: Wyatt - despite his foolish poetry, and his indiscretions, no evidence has been presented, and he has been acquitted; not that he will be released for the moment. I wish he could be - I cannot imagine what he must be feeling about our actions in bringing him to that awful state, and I want to assure him that it was out of necessity, not choice.

The trial of the Lady Anne - no longer Queen - takes place a few days later. The news comes through late one afternoon as the sun slants in through the mullions and illuminates a million motes of dancing dust. She is guilty, and condemned to die as a traitor. For a woman, that means to be burned; though, if he can be persuaded to, or perhaps he will choose it, this sentence can be commuted to beheading.

As Henry is still convinced he was bewitched, and that Anne is nothing more than a treacherous whore, there is no guarantee that he will be inclined to be merciful. But who would court such infamy as to burn a Queen - even a disgraced one? I cannot begin to imagine, and I have no wish to be present to find out. I am, however, not given a choice in the matter.

"Come, Mr Rich," Cromwell sighs, as the messenger departs, "His Majesty demanded that I be the one to deliver the verdict to him. He shall expect you to be present." He has said very little to anyone - even to me - since our return from the Tower after the interrogations, and nothing at all since I reported to him after my return from her arrest. It has been several weeks since that took place, and I presume the Clerks think that we have had some sort of falling out. Certainly, his formality in inviting me to go with him to the Privy Chamber would suggest such a thing.

As we go, he says nothing - though perhaps I do not expect him to. But in the fading light, I can see dark shadows under his eyes, and a pallor that suggests tiredness. When did he last sleep? Has he been out hunting more than he should? I should know this - I am his Second; but I do not. For the last few weeks, I have tried very hard not even to care.

There is but one servant in the room when we are admitted. The King is seated at his desk, his expression unreadable. He has only one word to say to us, "Well?"

"The verdict was 'Guilty', your Majesty. As it was for her five co-conspirators two days prior." Cromwell advises, gravely, "The sentence is death. A warrant is being prepared for your signature, and shall be ready within the hour." He pauses; clearly he has more to say.

"What?" Henry snaps.

"Your Majesty, as it is your pleasure to commute the sentence from burning to beheading. What arrangements are to be made?" He speaks quite tentatively - it is impossible to know how the King will react, "I am told that the former Queen showed great composure during the trial, and that it is rumoured that your Majesty will be inclined to be merciful."

The King's head comes up, sharply, "I give no credence to rumours, Mr Cromwell. That woman is a whore and a practitioner of witchcraft. She conspired against my life. Do you consider her to be worthy of mercy?"

He is treading on dangerous ground now, and we both know it; for, even at his most enraged, the King is far too sharp to be easily led, but Cromwell does not shy from it, "I mention it not for her benefit, but for yours, Majesty. That you have been impugned is not in doubt - but perhaps a show of mercy upon your part might reflect well with the people? Your anger has been demonstrated, and its outcome is known. The people love you as their King, and would welcome your kindness in the face of such infamy against you - for you are magnanimous in victory over those who would have brought you down."

I hold my breath, wondering whether the King will accept, or - as is equally likely - strike his Chancellor across the face again.

He seems quite pleased with Cromwell's suggestion - though I am left with the strong impression that all Cromwell has done is pre-emptively prompt his Majesty to agree to measures that he had already intended to put into place, "Well put, Mr Cromwell - well put. I think that it would be well to demonstrate to my subjects that I can show mercy to those who act against me - even in such vile terms as this; besides, most of them are noblemen and should not be gutted before a clamorous mob. I shall commute all the sentences to beheading, including the musician. Let it be known that the five who moved against me shall be beheaded, and the woman who seduced them shall die equally quickly, but _not_ by a common axe. Ensure that a man of suitable skill is engaged for the task - I'm told that there is a fine swordsman in Saint-Omer who is expert in such matters. Fetch him hither and see to it that it is done."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell bows, and I bow with him. What is going on? What happened to the ruthless Raven? Why has he taken such a risk to his own safety by aiming to direct the King's will - even more so given that the King appears to have come to the same conclusion of his own volition? Perhaps he merely wished to know the King's decision in advance; but that cannot be certain, so I have no answers as we step back, and leave - and Cromwell seems disinclined to provide any.

"What of Tom?" I ask him, as we make our way back to the offices. The first words I have spoken to him truly unprompted since I left his apartments.

"I shall return to the Tower presently to advise him of his acquittal. I cannot secure his immediate release - but it should not take more than a week or so. I should rather he remain confined until after the Lady Anne's execution, as he will certainly go to see it if he is released - and that would destroy him. I have no doubt of it." And it's back again - that awful, lonely vulnerability. I am utterly confused at how he works. No matter how I think I have figured him out, I am always wrong. I assumed he did not care - but he does.

His eyes sad, he turns to leave, and I continue to the offices alone. The weeks that have passed have been dreadful, yes - but the worst is yet to come.


	20. Fallout

 

It is over. The former queen is dead - her head severed in a single stroke by a French swordsman. God knows it took him long enough to get to us, and the King was not happy that he was obliged to wait for the news he wanted to hear. I was not present when Cromwell had to advise him that it would be necessary to postpone the execution because the executioner had not yet arrived - but talk of his Majesty's reaction was all over the servant's hall from the one page who had been present at the time. The King had been so enraged by Cromwell's attempt to remind him that his mercy was public knowledge that he had grabbed him by the collar and flung him into the wall - and then threatened him at knifepoint, before he had relented and agreed to the postponement. William brings me this news - largely thanks to his view that the Second should know all that happens to his Silver Sword, and he adds that the tale is growing as it travels - to the point that the King has stabbed out one of Cromwell's eyes, or cut off one of his fingers to show him what it is to have a part of one's body severed. It is, obviously, utter nonsense, and William is scornfully dismissive - but he still feels I should know. I have no doubt that Cromwell would not have said a word about it. His loyalty to the King always seems to stop his mouth about such matters.

I had no wish to attend the execution - but Cromwell did. I have no idea why he would do so - as all consider her fall to be an act of his devising. The rumours that have come back to the court tell of her bravery, and her dignity. So much so that even those who had turned up to celebrate her end found themselves on their knees when the blade swung. I cannot help but wonder if he joined them - but then, I suspect that the dramatic about-turn of the crowd's mood would have led to his being strung up from the nearest torch-bracket if he had not. When he returns, I know my curiosity will force me to ask him. But he does not return.

Even Wriothesley is beginning to become quite twitchy at his continuing absence. This is not like the Lord Chancellor at all. Yes, he would have had to report to the King that she was dead - but then he would simply come back to the office. What else would he do? Even I have no idea, and I head out to search for him.

My first stop is at his apartments, but he is not there. William, however, is folding some table-linen, and he advises quietly that I might like to try the Chapel Royal. One of the cleaning women says that she had to shift her bucket to avoid his kicking it over as he marched into the sacred space with such single-minded intent that he saw neither the bucket, nor her. Again, she has embellished the tale somewhat before it took on a life of its own - suggesting that he is prostrated before the altar, or perhaps battering his head with his hands out of guilt. I suspect neither to be true - but at least I have somewhere more concrete to try.

Thanking William, I walk briskly to the Chapel, and find that William is right - and the cleaning woman is…sort of right. He is not prostrate, nor is he pounding his head with his fists; but he is on his knees, and seems to be slumped forward. He is not praying - I have seen him on his knees before God, and he is always as straight backed as a rod. But he is sitting back on his heels, and his shoulders are drooped. Even from behind, without sight of his face, I do not need to ask what troubles him.

Rather than talk, I instead go down on my knees beside him, and cross myself. Cromwell says not a word as I offer up what prayers I can for those who are dead - and ask forgiveness for my role in the whole sorry business. Even as I do so, I know that I, too, cannot believe that my actions are truly forgivable - but are we not promised redemption if we ask for it with true sincerity and remorse?

When I am done, I turn to look at Cromwell. He is not in tears, at least, but his expression is stricken. I realise that, unlike me, he has been unable to offer up any prayer at all - and has instead been slumped here, silent and miserable; probably since he left the King some hours ago. Eventually, after what seems like an age, he turns and looks at me, and I look back at the pews behind, hoping he realises that I am suggesting we sit in them. Fortunately, he does - and rises to his feet. I follow, and we sit down - a large pillar between ourselves and the Chancel offering at least a vague measure of concealment from any who might venture into the Nave.

"She had such composure." Cromwell says, quietly, "The crowd was not so great, for we were on the Green, not the Hill, but still - even those who had been granted entry and intended to jeer were silenced by it. I was not fool enough to stand close by - all know that I was the one who brought her to that state; and none would have any wish to blame the King for it, even though it was all carried through by his orders. She asked them to pray for her - and they all began to kneel. All of them. Even I - for her courage made her transcendent; and we were friends, once. And it was then that I realised that I was not the only one of our number who had come to watch her end."

"Wyatt?" I ask, in dismay, "But I thought he was to be kept confined until it was over, so that he would not be obliged to watch?"

"That was my intention. Nothing would have kept him from that place had he been able to reach it, for it would have been the last he would have seen of her; but he was let go sooner than I hoped. I would have rather he had remained away - for I have no doubt that it shall haunt him until his last days." Cromwell pauses, then goes on, "God pity him - he looked distraught. As soon as it was over, he fled. I know not where he is now."

"How did the King view the matter?"

"He was most pleased. He waved me away almost at once, and seemed most light hearted - a great burden being lifted from him - I suspect he was keen to pay a call upon the Lady Jane. Both of his previous queens are now dead, so there is no need to wait for long, long years to obtain an annulment as he endured when he sought Anne; he is free to pursue his next marriage - for he shall wed Jane Seymour. The only matter not settled is when; but it shall be in a matter of days at most."

I shudder. How easily the King casts aside those who have given him all that they are. Wolsey, More - even his two late Queens. It is a fearful thing to have his favour - for as much as it can bring wealth, titles and great prestige, it can equally vanish in an instant: leaving the one it has abandoned utterly beyond help and with nothing to look to but banishment or exile, if they are fortunate, or the block if they are not. I play that deadly game as much as any other, and it certainly inspired my previously craven manner; that I am perhaps a little more honourable now means nothing to those who might wish to turn the King's will against me. I do not have Cromwell's power or influence, and I am finding that I no longer desire it - not now that the price it might demand of me could leave a Silver Sword without a Second. My reason to be at Court has changed utterly, it seems.

Much as been asked of us - and we have delivered the outcome the King desired. He is pleased with us - and doubtless there may be some reward if his attention does not wander again in view of his impending nuptials. Whatever happens, however, it shall not compensate for the dull sense of guilt that sits deep in my chest - almost squeezing my heart to nothing. Only Smeaton confessed - and he did so on the rack, though he did not recant once released, I note. We have not broken any law - for the law is an instrument of state, not justice; it serves the King, as we do. But still we provided evidence that none could say is either conclusive or even, if we are to be honest, true. But as Cromwell says - the King wills, the King must have.

He willed. He got. But it is we who must bear the consequences.

"What of Wiltshire?" I ask, suddenly, "Where is he now that his son and daughter are dead?"

"Gone." Cromwell shrugs, "I was not the one who told him he was free to go; the Duke of Suffolk was granted that privilege, but he told me about it afterwards. All that Wiltshire cared for was that he was to go free - and that he was to keep his Earldom. Brandon was hard put not to strike him for his callous disregard for his own children. We shall not see him at Court again. His day is done." For the first time, I hear a different note in his voice.

"And that pleases you." I finish, quietly.

He nods, "It does, Richard. It truly does. I must confess that, when I interrogated him, I truly hoped that he might incriminate himself - for of all of them, it was he that I most wished to see upon the scaffold. Not so much for his cruel use of his own child for his own gain, but for his actions against Wolsey. He and Norfolk conspired together to bring him down - out of jealousy and greed for the favour he had from the King's Majesty. In doing so, they robbed me of my Second, and left me blind; and I am here for the sole purpose of protecting the King's safety in the face of the darkness that seeks to engulf this Kingdom."

He stops, but somehow, I know that there is more to it than that, and I say so.

Cromwell looks at me, startled at my unexpected insight, but he sighs, and nods. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, and sad, "It was. He did not just rob me of my Second - he robbed me of one who was like a father to me. As my own father was not. When I returned to England, I was callow, inexperienced and not a little lost - for I had but recently emerged from my training. He gave me a roof over my head, knowledge and all the help that I could possibly have asked for, and more that I did not even know that I needed.

"For the first time, Richard, I knew what it was to have a father - someone who was there beside me, supporting me and protecting me. He did more than advance my career: there were times when his counsel, and sometimes his fists, kept me on the right path - particularly after Elizabeth died, and my two girls. I loved him for that, Richie. Loved him as a son loves his father. And Boleyn took that from me." His eyes go hard, and I begin to see more deeply his hatred of Boleyn, and the pain he had felt at the requirement Wolsey placed upon him to offer Wiltshire his service and loyalty.

"We are not meant to seek vengeance, Richie," he continues, "the Mission is All. Petty squabbles and palace politics have no place when set against the darkness that could enfold all that reside within these walls. My desire to avenge myself upon Wiltshire compromised my judgement; and, though all turned out right in the end, I could have sent all to hell in my desire to destroy the man who destroyed my Second."

We sit in silence for a while. I can appreciate some of his feelings, as I share them. We did as the King commanded, and got him out of his suddenly unwanted marriage - but the price that was demanded for it was dreadful. And he cares nothing for that - has it even remotely occurred to him that we, the instruments through which his will was worked, must now live with what we had to do in order to bring it about? Doubtless he does not - his interest now is in securing another wife; one who might finally bring him the son he craves.

Cromwell's mention of vengeance also strikes something of a chord. Above all other things, he is still human and still has feelings, even if he buried them while we worked to bring about the King's will. Anne committed no crime other than to earn the King's ire - and that was all that was needed to bring her down. She was not to know that her father and brother had fallen in with an evil influence - she loved a King, and now she has paid for that with her life.

But so have five others - all of them doubtless as innocent as she. We both know it, and we both feel the burden of our actions. What is the knowledge that we have broken Mortimer's link to the throne compared to the knowledge that we had to cause so much misery to break it? Now I begin to truly understand why Cromwell hides his true self away. Sometimes, he cannot afford to do anything else. Such is the reality of his existence as a Silver Sword. As his Second - now it is also mine.

* * *

Wriothesley sighs with visible relief as we return to the office chambers. He never likes to be uninformed as to the Lord Chancellor's whereabouts, as he prides himself on knowing exactly what is happening at all times in the offices and departments that run the palaces and operate the systems of Government. People do not tend to be pleased when they demand to know where Cromwell is, and the Secretary has to admit that he does not know. He tends not to be pleased, either.

The first item he wishes to discuss with Cromwell is the forthcoming plans of the King to wed his new queen Jane. The name of his former wife is not to be mentioned by anyone - at any time - on pain of inciting his Majesty to a great rage. Moreover, the name Boleyn is forbidden - even in criticism. After all, to state that Boleyn was acting against the King's interests is to suggest that the King was fooled by him. No one with even half a brain in their heads would be so crazed as to offer such a claim.

They shall wed in the Chapel Royal, naturally; though the Coronation is to follow at a later date - to be decided…also at a later date.

As he seats himself at his desk, I notice a slight look of discontent on Cromwell's face, and I wonder what has disturbed him, then berate myself again. It's true - I really am starting to behave like his mother: Wolsey was the father he never had, and now I am turning into a nagging old woman that wants to know his every thought. Instead of approaching him, I return to my own desk, at the other end of the chambers, and seat myself with my own papers. If it is important, then he shall tell me.

I finish my work late, and the clocks outside are striking seven. At this time of the year, there is still plenty of light, so the clerks have been dismissed for the day. Even Wriothesley has left, and I realise that Cromwell is not working, but is instead reading a book. He has been waiting for me to finish my work - and then I realise why: he is quite serious about ensuring that Mortimer, Zaebos or whatever he intends to call himself now, does not assault me again. A part of me feels relief, while another feels embarrassed at my inability to protect myself. As we have not seen Wyatt at any time today since the Lady Anne died, I suppose that my intended lessons will now come from Cromwell alone.

When we arrive at Cromwell's apartments to sup, William reports with some disappointment that he has failed to find Wyatt to pass on the invitation to join us. There is no surprise in this; he was distraught at the death of the woman he loved so deeply, and he must know the only reason he survived was because of Cromwell's protection. No wonder he wishes to avoid our company. It is, however, sad - and we eat in silence, as neither of us can think of anything to say. There is no possibility of our being able to restore that pleasant camaraderie we shared before all of this began - and I feel myself mourning for it. We are no longer three. We are but two again.

It is still rather embarrassing to be escorted back to my own apartments, but with Mortimer lurking and having nothing left to lose, and Wyatt no longer interested in our company, the last thing that Cromwell wants is to lose me as well. By now, I have lost the distrust that would drive me to think that he does this entirely for his own benefit. I have seen for myself that he has the capacity for great kindness, even though his ruthlessness has shocked me in equal measure; and that dislike that I have nursed for almost as long as I have known him has dispersed entirely. My only concerns now are Wyatt, and trying to be less of a helpless burden upon the man to whom I am meant to be a capable support.

The next few days prove to be frustrating, as we see Wyatt lingering here and there about the court, but he always leaves any chamber he is in at the first sight of either one, or both of us. His eyes are always full of reproach, and it is clear that he avoids us out of blame, not shame. He loved Anne, and we destroyed her. Not only that, but Cromwell is - inevitably - heavily involved in the preparations for the new Queen's wedding, no more than a few days away now. Even his zeal for the reforms that we are pushing through has diminished, and the impetus to continue with the dissolution has faltered somewhat. It continues, certainly, but not at the pace that we envisaged. Even the King has no interest - he is instead focusing on hopes for his next venture into matrimony. It is at this point that Cromwell enlightens me as to his rather sour mood after his discussion with Wriothesley.

"Jane has Catholic sympathies." He says, as we end another Wyatt-less supper, "I wish that she did not, for she will almost certainly try to persuade the King to pull back from our reforms; and I have no wish for that to happen any more than it already has."

I cannot help but sigh inwardly. My own religious leanings tend to blow in the direction of the prevailing wind, so I cannot fathom the fervour that Cromwell has for the reforms of Luther, or his determination to pull apart centuries of religious activity. I do as is required of me, however; as he does. With the King less interested in the progress of reforming the Church that he has set himself over, the plans to end the seemingly never-ending holidays and feast days are still in abeyance, and the larger houses are still operating unchecked.

That must, perforce, wait. The King demands a wedding of the highest style, and that must be the priority. Though I am relieved that it is not a priority for me: Cromwell is the unfortunate individual who has to try to find the money to pay for it.

I am also not obliged to attend the wedding, as my status is not high enough. Instead, I remain safely ensconced at my desk, engrossed in legal papers as the day passes without incident. By the time the wedding party have returned to the Palace - a party to which I _am_ invited - I am grateful to get away from paperwork and actually enjoy the opportunity to carouse in the Hall. Something that I rarely seem to do these days.

The King and his new queen are seated on fine chairs in the middle of the hall, while the Court dances all around, and servants set out an enormous array of spiced meats, sallets, fine breads and all manner of comfits and sweetmeats for all present to raid as they wish. There has not been an atmosphere of such joy about the King for some considerable time, and I feel the sense of tension lift from me - made obvious now only by its disappearance. Perhaps now all shall be well - though I can see Cromwell off to one side, avoiding the dancing and looking most out of place with his rather downcast expression.

"What is it?" I ask, concerned.

"Many things," he admits, "We all hope that the King shall be happy with his new Queen; but, as you and I know, there is still Lamashtu. Mortimer may no longer be a significant threat to any but ourselves - but she could still destroy all by the simple act of interfering in her Majesty's pregnancies. It is, after all, her most enjoyed pastime."

"What _else_ is it?" I insist.

"Tom." He sighs, and looks across the room. I follow his gaze, and I can see Wyatt, seated at a table with some of the other young men of the Court. They are all laughing and joking - but he sits slumped forward, sinking cup after cup of the free-flowing wine with the singleminded determination of one who wishes to blot out the entire world. He does not join their laughter, and seems not to notice their jokes. Instead, he gulps down more wine, and glares back at us with eyes full of accusation.

"We should remove him from here." I mutter, "He shall either humiliate himself by puking all over the place, or he shall expose us. I have no doubt that he is in the humour to do such a thing. Even if he were heavily in his cups, his words could be extremely damaging."

"I agree," Cromwell says, "but we should take great care. You head about the room clockwise, I shall travel counter. We shall meet behind him and take what steps we can to remove him from the hall. If we are fortunate, he shall be so far gone in drink that he shall not protest - and may not notice that we are the ones who take him. The last thing we would wish for is for him to create a scene."

We step apart, as though intending to talk to other guests at the affair, and gradually make our way around the room slowly and with no apparent purpose. I note that Wyatt has lost interest in us: his attention having returned entirely to the wine, and we are eventually behind him. His head is drooping with a combination of drink and tiredness - and it is highly likely that he is not far off passing out from drunkenness. If he does, I do not relish having to march him back to his apartments, or mine, or Cromwell's, as he is certainly going to start puking at some point, and I should rather not be the one who must deal with the mess.

Around him, his companions are still loud and boisterous - and one has already staggered into a corner to bring up some of the drink he has swallowed. Wyatt, however, is a single thundercloud in an otherwise sunny firmament, and his head is nodding. With luck, he shall assume that we are nothing more than palace stewards come to break up the carousing.

Luck is indeed upon our side, as he rises with little intelligible protest, and allows us to march him out of the hall through a side door. We are obliged to stop several times as, not surprisingly, the excess wine refuses to stay in his stomach, and he vomits - with stomach churning lavishness - into any drain or patch of soft ground that we can bend him over.

We are also treated to another side effect of his drunkenness, as he starts to weep over his lost love. Thank God we got him out of the hall. Christ alone knows what would have happened if he had started doing _that_ in the King's presence. It is only as we arrive at Cromwell's apartments, that he finally seems to notice who has brought him there, and he stares at each of us with such naked hate that I almost let go of his arm and step away. Not that I need to do so, as he wrenches his arms free of us and stumbles to the wall. He cannot maintain a straight line, and hits the bricks with shocking force - as though he had not even seen it.

"Get your filthy, bloody hands off me…" he slurs, "You murdering dogs…you killed her…" and he begins to blubber again, drunkenly.

Rather than argue, Cromwell leans through the door into his quarters and calls William to assist us. Between the three of us, we manage to get the furious young drunkard inside. Why are we bothering? It would be best to get him back to his own quarters and leave him be. He would almost certainly have no wish to talk to us sober - so to try to talk to him when he is drunk is a fruitless enterprise.

Before we can seat him, he heaves again, but William is remarkably quick in snatching a basin, and he manages to prevent Wyatt from despoiling Cromwell's rather fine Turkish carpet.

"This shall serve no one, Thomas," I say, looking up at him as Wyatt slumps back in the chair and starts crying again, "Until he is sober, we cannot hope to make progress - look at him! The wine has addled his wits - we shall get nowhere."

"It shall serve one purpose of the utmost importance." Cromwell says, gravely, "If he is here, then he is safe from Zaebos. I would not risk his being outside in this state. Not with a demon who has so much to lose. He failed to secure the ritual to grant Lamashtu death from her eyes. He has lost his place at court with the fall of the Boleyns. If he is to save himself, he must present her with some coup or other - one of us, for choice. Therefore Tom must be protected; whether he wishes for us to do it, or not. I have failed him - and I do not intend to do so again."

Wyatt has stopped crying - but only because he is now sleeping. I sigh to myself - it looks as though there shall be no sleep for me tonight.

Wyatt sleeps for no more than two hours, before he wakes and pukes again. Fortunately, William was prepared for this, and has set a basin at the side of the couch upon which he lies, so the damage is minimised. Wyatt's eyes are still a little unfocused, but he seems to be more in his proper mind now - albeit suffering the aftereffects of excessive drinking.

He still, however, glares at us with shocking hatred.

"Zaebos was using the Boleyns, Tom." I say, wondering if he will listen - or even care, "The King's life was in danger. They were plotting against him - and while they were under the influence of a Demon, we had to stop them."

"But not _her_." Wyatt snarls.

"She was caught in the same toils, Tom." Cromwell tries, quietly, on his knees alongside the angry man on the couch, "Lamashtu ended her pregnancy - and damaged the babe in the process. We were not given a choice. The King wills, the King must have. You know that. We all know that."

"Liars - you know you could have saved her. You could have found a way. But you didn't. You hated her - because I loved her. You wanted rid of her." I stare at him, why is he speaking such nonsense? Is he still drunk - or just eager to wound? But his next words catch us both by surprise.

"You wanted rid of her…" he repeats, "because you wanted her for yourself, didn't you? That falling out - was that because she spurned you? If you could not have her, then she must be got rid of, mustn't she? In case she reports you to his Majesty! _You_ took her from me!" suddenly his fist lashes out, but Cromwell easily deflects it.

"That's the wine talking, Tom." He says, still quite calm, "I have never entertained any notions regarding the late Lady Anne - romantic or otherwise. I am, first and foremost, the keeper of the King's safety, whether he knows it or not. After that, I serve only the interests of his Majesty. If I am obliged to act, then I must. Had it been possible to end the conspiracy against his Majesty without bringing her to such a tragic end, then I would have done so - you must know that; surely?"

I have no idea why he is trying persuasion. Wyatt is still clearly troubled by wine, so he hears only what he wants to hear, and believes only what he wants to believe. Has Cromwell never been that drunk himself? Perhaps not. I achieved such a level of inebriation on a few occasions during my youth, and my friends at the time assured me that my intransigence when so in my cups would have gone into legend, had such legends existed. Wyatt is in the same state now, and no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind. In fact, quite the opposite.

"I care nothing for your obligations!" he cries, stumbling over the word 'obligations' several times, "You are responsible for the ending of my life and my joy! How can I ever write again? My last words to this earth shall be my lament to her!" and he is crying again, "I curse you, Thomas Cromwell! I curse you! May your heart be torn out as mine has been! If anyone can even find it!" Then he staggers to his feet, and forces his way past us - knocking me over and pushing Cromwell backwards from his knees to the floor. By the time we are back on our own feet, and at the door, he has gone - and we do not know which direction he has taken, so we cannot follow.

To my surprise, Cromwell suddenly lashes out, and slams his fist violently into the wall. I have never seen such a look of rage upon his face - but I realise that it is not aimed at any but himself. Rather than nurse his burst knuckles, he flings himself into a chair, and stares at the fire, "God, Richie - we've lost him. I have no idea how to reach him."

I sit down nearby, "He is still drunk, Thomas. Extremely so - do you not appreciate how much drink can addle the mind?"

He looks at me, darkly, and I realise he _does_ know; but clearly not from being so inebriated himself.

"Believe me." He says, eventually, "I did not know how to reach my father when he was so deep in drink. It appears that I learned nothing from my attempts to placate him - and I have proved equally useless now. The only difference is that I am now trained and strong enough to deflect the blows."

I have no idea how to respond to this - and instead I call William, who immediately sees to his master's injuries. As the damage is not severe, he merely washes and dresses the wounds as Cromwell sits impassively.

"We shall seek him out once he has had time to recover." I advise, firmly, "Until he is sober, we cannot hope to get through to him. Our best hope is to try again in the hours between his waking and the chance to return to his drunken state."

Cromwell nods, and sighs. Rather than waste time expecting him to escort me back to my quarters, I leave him to retire, and make myself as comfortable as I can on the couch, though I have my head at the opposite end from where Wyatt was when he spewed.

My tiredness is sufficient to ensure that I sleep far better than I ought, though the crick in my neck when I wake the next morning is most unpleasant. William has kindly set aside some hot water for me to wash, but I need to return to my apartments to find fresh clothes, as I discover, to my mild disgust, that at some point during our journey from the hall, Wyatt was not specific enough in his aim, and my simarre is spotted here and there at the hem with his vomit.

Once Cromwell has emerged from his bedchamber, fortunate enough to have immediate access to fresh garments, he and I head to my quarters, so that I can change, and hand over my spoiled simarre to John to deal with. By the time we have done so, it is well into the morning, and highly unlikely that Wyatt will still be sufficiently drunk to be impossible to reason with. We thus decide to take the risk of another confrontation, and make our way to his quarters.

The corridor is quiet - and I think none have passed this way yet this morning; but a shock awaits us as we arrive. The door to Wyatt's small suite of rooms is ajar. Motioning to me to stand back, Cromwell eases it open and looks in, carefully drawing a knife from somewhere about his person. It is immediately clear that no one is present - though the room is in a state of some disarray - to the point of a table having been overturned. Surely Wyatt was not so enraged that he turned on his furniture and destroyed it?

But then it occurs to me - a struggle must have taken place, yes - but against whom?

_I shall have your Second, Silver Sword! Or that other fool! One or the other: your head will be mine, I swear it!_

That awful threat is suddenly strong in my memory, and I know exactly what has happened. As I look at Cromwell, he is turning to me, the same thought clearly in his head.

"Zaebos has him…" is all I can say.

Cromwell says not a word. Instead, he brushes past me and stalks away at a swift march. Nervous, I trot after him - all the way back to his own apartments, where he is pacing back and forth in a most unnerving manner. Then, without warning, he hurls the knife at the wood of the overmantel and lets out a dreadful shout of rage, before his expression falters and he slumps into a chair, his head bowed.

"Thomas?" I ask, nervously.

He does not reply. Bemused, I shake his arm - but neither words nor prods or shakings reach him. He seems to have shut himself away, and I cannot persuade him to even look at me. We have lost Wyatt - possibly he may already be dead…and now Cromwell seems to be broken up. There is only me. And what the hell am I supposed to do now?


	21. Hunting the Hunter

 

A small clock on the overmantel strikes ten, the tiny chimes sprinkling the air about us with the only sound in the room. I have been crouched beside the chair in which Cromwell sits for over an hour; but neither I nor William have managed to coax so much as a word from him - or even a glance. It is as though he has closed himself off into another space - and we are not welcome to join him.

"I have seen this before, Sir." William admits, quietly, "Not often - but at times, if matters are at their worst. He emerges in time, and speaks nothing of his thoughts. I think perhaps he feels great guilt - for he places much upon himself to preserve lives - and should he fail, he considers himself to be to blame."

Thinking about it, I remember that evening after we had destroyed that first ravener, when he told Tom and I of the deaths of the Florentine family with whom he had lodged. And then the nightmare he suffered that first night at Grant's Place. William is right - but to have become so burdened that he cannot confront our situation? I have never seen the like - and I have no idea how to respond to it. Without Wyatt at my side to offer another opinion, I am utterly lost.

"He places too much upon himself." I say, "If we can draw him out of this, then I think we must do all we can to assure him that his belief is false."

"I have attempted to do so," William admits, "But I think he listens only to assure me. He does not believe me."

I cannot help but groan inwardly. We do not have time for this - Wyatt does not have time for it. I stand, and William rises to join me, "We cannot afford to wait for him to emerge, William. Perhaps Wolsey's library might have some advice." With luck, there should be wherries in the port, and I can be at Grant's Place before the end of the afternoon. I do need, however, to advise Wriothesley of our absence, so I make my way straight to the offices to seek him out.

"The King is asking for him, my Lord," Wriothesley frets, "I have had to return the messenger to the Privy Chamber to say that he cannot be found. The messenger returned a few moments ago with a bloody nose and a reminder that the King does not expect to be told such things."

As the only man who was never intimidated by the King's anger is long dead, I do not feel embarrassed at the sudden sense of coldness in the pit of my stomach. I have no choice but to face the onslaught myself - for I _do_ know where Cromwell is. The fact that he is in no fit state to meet with the King is immaterial: he would dispatch guards to Cromwell's chamber to escort him to the King's presence. I have no idea how I can persuade him that the Lord Chancellor is not well enough to attend, and my search for a good reason occupies me to the point where I am at the door, and a nervous looking steward ushers me in.

I rarely face the King alone, and I have certainly never had to do so when he is in a temper. The look on his face is so sour that I almost want to run away.

"Where is he, Mr Rich? I have been awaiting his attendance for an hour or more." The volume of his voice suddenly rises, "I do not like to be kept waiting. Where is the Lord Chancellor?"

Then it comes to me - there is one thing that would cause the King to agree to Cromwell's absence from his presence - one thing…

"Forgive me, your Majesty," God, my voice is shaking, "I have come from his apartments. I must report that he is unwell. His manservant would not allow me to enter, in case of contagion. He said that the Lord Chancellor was afflicted with some form of ague, and is abed. He does not think that it is overly serious - perhaps some form of chill - but he has no wish to place you at risk of infection."

That is all that Henry truly fears, and I pray silently that he will accept my words. I also pray equally fervently that I have not over-egged it - as, if there is the merest hint that the illness is plague, or the sweat, then he shall demand that Cromwell be removed from the Palace at once.

"Very well," he snaps, "Get yourself from my presence - for if you have been near him, and you have what he has, I have no wish to be near you. Send Wriothesley." He waves me away, sharply, and I escape.

Relieved, I stop only to advise the unfortunate Mr Wriothesley of his summons, before returning to my apartments in search of more suitable clothing to go burrowing about in a cellar. Once back in the suit that I had so foolishly referred to as my own hunting garb, I hurry to the water gate in hopes that not only a wherry is available, but also that the tide is in my favour. In each case, I am fortunate, and I am soon being ferried towards the city.

It is only as we approach the Tower wharves that I realise that I forgot to add the poniard that Cromwell gave me. While the area about the Palace is mostly well to do, I shall be obliged to travel from the Tower to Grant's Place on foot - and I have no means of protecting myself. But then, even if I _did_ have the poniard, I should be more likely to hurt myself than anyone with designs upon my person - as Cromwell's intention to teach me to defend myself with at least some degree of competence has not yet moved from intention to deed.

The streets are busy, however, so the only risk I take is crashing into people, as I must progress with care, looking down at the floor to avoid the usual unpleasantnesses that seem to end up there. Cromwell might have no qualms about splashing refuse and worse all over his shoes - but I am not so keen. My efforts do, however, keep me thoroughly entertained as I make my way north; and I am soon at the gates of Grant's Place.

"Why does no one ever _tell_ me that visitors are expected?" Goodwife Dawson is, as always, most displeased to be caught unawares by my arrival. Even the fact that she only has to cater for one seems not to mollify her. I think perhaps she does it because she assumes that we expect it, so I endure meekly until she sighs the deep sigh of the martyr, and allows me to enter.

"How is Mr Cromwell?" she asks, as she stands aside.

I opt to tell her the truth, "Not well, Mrs Dawson. There was an…incident…last night, and he is most burdened by it."

Her expression shows that she understands my meaning. She, like William, is aware that he can be overwhelmed by events at times - and has also seen it before. Immediately, she is taking my cloak, offering me something to eat and drink, and bustling about to keep the other servants away from the Chamber with the secret door.

"Is that why you are here?" she asks, worriedly, as I enter. She does not follow, so I turn to her.

"Yes, it is. Do you know what this room contains?"

She shakes her head, "I know there are secrets in this house, Mr Rich - but Mr Cromwell has never told me of them. He prefers me not to know - but I think for my own protection rather than his."

"That is so. I do not know whether there is anything within that can help us - but we do not have time for him to emerge from his becalmed state on his own. I must seek out what I can from the secrets held here. An innocent life depends upon it."

"Any help that you require," she says, earnestly, "You have but to ask." She nods as I thank her, and withdraws, shutting the door behind her.

There is no fire in the grate, as the day is rather too warm for one. Instead, I strike the flint and steel that lies nearby, to light a spill from the kindling and transfer that to a candle. Such is my urgency, that I struggle to obtain a light at first, and I am obliged to stand still for a few moments to calm down. I am of no use to anyone if I also allow this awfulness to affect me.

Once down in the cellars, however, the presence of the books seems almost to be a balm to my racing thoughts. There is nothing I enjoy more than to seek out knowledge - and this is, as Cromwell has told me more than once, now my domain. Transferring the light to the lantern, I seat myself at the reading desk, and begin to search the Great Index, in hopes that there might be some reference to reaching someone who has closed themselves off from others. Wolsey must have seen it happen to Cromwell during their association. He must have done…

But there is nothing. Not a single reference. How could he not have thought to include references to assist a later Second in managing such a situation? But then - he did not expect to have to instruct a later Second; by the time he realised that it would be necessary, there would have been no opportunity to do so - or his mind would have been on other things entirely. I have nothing to refer to.

Disappointed, I flip through to the final page, which I have not yet seen. There, to my surprise, is a small note: _treatises on physics and medicines - unreferenced shelf at rear._ The note has been written in haste, as though as an afterthought - and I realise that, even at the last minute, Wolsey _did_ realise that he must assist a new Second.

The shelf I seek is, as described, at the very far end of the cellars, and I curse aloud at the mess. Wolsey was never granted the time to catalogue these books, and they have been left to accumulate dust and mouse droppings in the intervening years. I shall have to go through them one by one. I do not have _time_ for this…

Muttering to myself, I start to gather as many books as I can into my arms to transport them back to the reading desk. In my annoyance, however, I am becoming clumsy, and one over-tall stack topples, scattering across the floor.

For no worthwhile reason, I shout something obscene, and stamp my foot like a petulant child - as though the books had fallen deliberately to spite me. Grumbling crossly, I bend to retrieve them, and then snap another obscenity as a folded paper flutters away from the pile and drifts across the floor into a dark corner. Fetching it out, I feel ready to crumple it into a ball and hurl it at the wall, until a single word catches my eye.

 _Lamashtu_.

Leaving the books on the floor, I immediately unfold the paper in the hopes that this might be the one piece of the puzzle we need the most, and suddenly my curse is replaced by a sharp shout of relief, "Thank you, God!" for now I finally know what we must find in order to destroy her.

Unfortunately, however, I do not know what the items might be.

I am unable to abandon the mess that I have created, and try to be less clumsy this time as I replace them, despite my excitement at my find. This discovery might be what we need to bring Cromwell back from his melancholia, so the more I can discover from it, the better.

The writing is difficult to read, as the language is archaic, and scattered with words and even letters that we do not use any longer. I see the use of the letter 'thorn' which we have abandoned, but the words are meaningless to me. As best as I can decipher, we must obtain two items - one referred to as _Blár Eldur_ , the other as _Rauður Eldur_ \- which will force Lamashtu into her true demonic form. It is only then that these unknown items can be used against her; but they _shall_ destroy her: that is promised. If we can work out what these items are - and obtain them - then we can prevail against her.

Without hesitation, I am delving back into the Great Index again, in the hopes of references to mystical objects. This time, Wolsey is far more forthcoming with his references, and I am back and forth between the desk and shelves for nearly two hours. My searches, however, prove to be fruitless - there is not so much as a mention of these unknown items; or, if there is, it is not in a context that I can understand and match with them. Disappointed, I have no alternative but to admit defeat and hope that I can return to Placentia before dark.

Folding up the paper that I have found, I carefully secure it in a pocket inside the jerkin that sits over my doublet, and tidy away my mess. Goodwife Dawson is keen to offer me sustenance before I depart, but the sense of urgency I feel to return to the Palace and present this information to Cromwell in the hope that it might stir him from his silence is such that I refuse as politely as I can. She does, however, insist that I be transported back to the Wharves by carriage, so at least I shall be there at a more swift speed than I might have been had I walked.

The tide is on the turn when I arrive at the Tower, but a few wherries are bobbing nearby, and I am able to secure one to return me to Greenwich. As I am quite roughly dressed, the Wherryman assumes me to be a palace servant, and attempts to make conversation, until I glare at him, and he stops. I am still too interested in the mystery that I have uncovered. What are these objects? What do their names mean? Will a translation help us to understand, or make matters worse?

What if my discovery does not bring Cromwell back?

I pay the wherryman a substantial gratuity to compensate for my rudeness, which mollifies him considerably, and he departs from the watergate with a cheery wave. I have managed to get back before nightfall, though the shadows are growing long, and few people are about.

My mind is still largely occupied by thoughts of odd words and their meaning as I hasten back to Cromwell's apartments. I am, therefore, utterly unprepared for the violent grasp upon my arm, and do not even have time to shout as I am dragged into a silent, shadowed passageway.

"Say nothing. Or you die." The voice hisses as a gauntleted hand clamps over my mouth, and I go cold inside, for it is Mortimer.

* * *

I attempt to struggle, but Mortimer is a demon, and he is far stronger than I. He is also taller, despite my own height; he lifts me up as though I am weightless, and carries me, kicking rather wildly, through the darkened passage out into that same abandoned part of the Palace that we had found when looking for his sacrifices.

Dear God…sacrifices…is he looking for new ones? I would scream if I could - but my mouth is muffled by his gauntleted hand, and I can manage no more than a faint keening sound that travels no further than his ears, and causes him to laugh. Ignoring my pathetic attempts to escape him, he kicks open the door to that same cellar, and carries me down the steps. Once inside, he casually drops me, and I go sprawling across the dirt floor.

The light is not good - just a few candles - but enough, as my eyes become used to the dimness, to see that I am not alone. Wyatt is in the corner, chained up and gagged. His eyes widen at the sight of me, and he tries to say something that is stopped up by the thick cloth jammed between his teeth. If I was his hope of rescue, then I am a poor failure, and I stare back at him with eyes just as wide. We are both afraid - he is, I can see it. So am I. Zaebos has both of us - and we are the most effective bargaining tools he could have hoped to have. No matter how cold Cromwell is, no matter how ruthless - no matter how much the Mission is All - he could not abandon us. Not now.

And Zaebos knows it.

He grabs me by the collar of my doublet and pulls me back to my feet before pushing me back up against the wall, "Where is the Raven, Second?" he asks, abandoning all pretence that he does not know who we truly are, "Why has he chosen you? Wolsey would have made a great opponent had he not been toppled - at least he would have fought me. But you? Weakling! I should enjoy killing you, but where is the sport in relieving such a wasted choice of his life?"

I cannot speak. My breathing is out of control, and my heart is racing. God…I am so afraid…so afraid…

"Even now," Zaebos continues, "your eyes are filling with tears. You coward! Would you defend him to the death if asked, as Wolsey would have done? If it came down to you, or him, who would you choose? We both know it would be your own sorry skin, do we not? Wolsey was far braver than you - you cannot hope to be his equal!"

To my shame, the rising tears are now on my cheeks. He is right - I could never be as brave as Wolsey was - never ask the Raven to abandon me to ignominy and death as he did. If my life were at stake, then I would do it…I would offer him up over me to save myself. I would…God forgive me, _I would_ …

I hear another strangled sequence of noises from Wyatt, who his shaking his head wildly. I have no idea what he is trying to say, but he is passionate about those words. He is trying to encourage me…he must be. But I am a coward - I am too afraid. Why did I agree to become a Second? I have neither the skill nor the bravery…

Then Zaebos pulls out a knife.

God have mercy, he _is_ going to kill me…he wants me to make that choice - my life, or Cromwell's…and I don't know if I can be brave. My fast breathing becomes more ragged, as Zaebos raises the knife to my throat. Behind him, Wyatt is still trying to shout at me behind that gag. My head is starting to spin…

"Get back from me!" I shout at him, "God help me, no matter what you say or you do, I shall _never_ betray the Raven! He would give his life for mine, and I shall return the favour!"

Words are easy. It is the consequences of them that are far harder to bear: he can see the livid terror in my eyes. Smirking, he uses the knife to slice away a piece of my ruffed collar, and waves it in my face, "I can start with this." He smiles, "Then I can move on to flesh. Are you sure you will never betray the Raven?"

A miserable little sob escapes, but I shake my head furiously, unable to trust myself to speak another word. Again Zaebos cuts, and another piece of my collar is dropped to the floor, before he raises the blade to the side of my head, "Are you fond of your ears, Second? Perhaps I should remove one so you that you can see it with your own eyes?" I cannot restrain a strangled moan, and he laughs, "And you tremble so hard, do you not? Such fear. Such fear…but I need you to deliver a message. Perhaps not, then." At last, he steps back, and I slump against the wall, trying as best I can to smudge away the escaped tears from my face. My dignity, however, is in scattered rags to match the two pieces of collar on the floor.

"I have the poet - and, as I promised, he shall die - offered up as a sacrifice to placate the dread Lamashtu. The Raven has a choice to make - he can save the boy, if he comes to me at midnight tonight. The Tiltyard. He must offer me his swords, and his head. If he does not, then three shall become two."

I try to glare at him, but his eyes are so dreadful that I cannot. Instead, he comes close to me again, his voice now a low whisper, "But then, it remains to be seen whether or not you shall live long enough to deliver my message."

I have mere moments to process the words that he says, to realise their meaning…then he buries the knife in my side, and I feel cold hard steel in my vitals. Beyond, Wyatt screams behind the gag, but I look up at Zaebos, unable to comprehend what is happening.

His eyes are cruel, and he smiles horribly as he withdraws the blade, and I sink to my knees, pressing my hands to the wound that is fountaining my life out onto the dirt floor. This cannot be happening…

Ignoring me, Zaebos crosses the room to where Wyatt is still trying to shout at me. Vaguely, I watch as he unfastens the chain, and drags Wyatt away, leaving me alone to bleed out my life in the cellar.


	22. The Cardinal's Gift

 

I think time is passing, but I am in darkness, and the world has lost all meaning; slivered shards of thoughts that emerge briefly and then scatter into the nothingness that my world has become. I can feel the floor pressing against me - so I must be lying down - and becoming sticky with blood. My blood. I am dying…I think…and there is no one at my side to comfort me as I feel myself sinking. Sleep…I just want to sleep now…I am cold…perhaps sleep will warm me again…

I fancy to myself that I can hear someone speaking to me, someone that is not familiar, and yet they seem to know me. Who could that be? The notion flits past me, and is suddenly gone again.

_Hear me, Second of the Raven._

There it is again…what is it? What is a raven? I should know. I'm sure I should…I want to close my eyes. Maybe they already are - it's impossible to tell in this darkness…

_Listen to me, damn you!_

It sounds quite irked now. How strange. If it is the voice of an angel, then it is a bad tempered angel…I suppose I deserve one, really. My cowardice led to this…

_Get up. Get up and get out of that cellar. Help is near, but you need to get out of that damned cellar. Are you listening to me, Second? Get up and crawl! The Raven needs you - you have his salvation in your pocket!_

My pocket…vaguely a memory stirs, then slips away. Weakly, I scrabble for that fleeting wraith, as one would scrabble for soap in the tub…the metaphor distracts me…what was I thinking again? God, I am so cold…

_RICHARD RICH!_

The voice is furious, for some reason. What on earth could I possibly have done to offend it so?

_GET YOUR DAMNED ARSE OUT OF THAT DAMNED CELLAR! DO YOU HEAR ME? EVEN IF YOU BLEED OUT YOUR DAMNED LIFE ALL OVER THAT WRETCHED CARPET HE LIKES SO MUCH, THE RAVEN MUST HAVE THAT PAPER IN YOUR POCKET. GET UP AND CRAWL, DAMN YOU!_

Then, I remember. The paper…the one that tells us how we can defeat Lamashtu…I have to reach Cromwell; I must - or we are all lost…and this time the thought does not slip away.

Slowly, painfully, I force my arm to move, lifting it from the pumping wound and trying to persuade it to reach the ground and pull me forth. It feels as though it is six feet long and made of wool, and my fingertips prickle horribly as I try to heave myself to my knees. My other arm is no better, nor are my legs. I can remember that the door and stairs were to my left as I was brought down into this place, and the wall is at my back. I must go left… _left_ …

My limbs are refusing to obey me, and I am more on my elbows than my hands. I think I am whimpering as I move, but I am not sure, as my mind is wandering again, and I keep seeing odd things out of the corners of my eyes. That furious voice, however, has ordered me not to die until I have delivered the paper - and I must deliver that message, too. Even though I can't actually remember what that message was. It must be important though…after all, I am being murdered for it.

The word 'murder' slips through my confused mind, and I can't remember what the words means anymore. Is it something to do with dying?

I blunder into a step, and now I must go up. I think. Perhaps yes. I hope that I am to go up. If I am to go downwards, then that means hell, and I definitely don't want to go there. Should I be crying now? The idea of being in hell ought to scare me; but the thought flickers in my head and vanishes again. Up. Keep going up…that voice will berate me again if I don't…

I feel as though I have been moving forever, but making no progress at all. Perhaps I _am_ in hell. Maybe I died in the cellar, and this is my punishment…I am frightened again, but only for a moment as the thought flickers out and fades…and I am cold again - but it feels different. A different kind of cold…

"Mr Rich! Mr Rich, Sir! Dear God, you are wounded!" Another voice. Oh, God, not another one…why won't they leave me alone?

"Mr Rich - it's me: William. You had not returned, but someone said they'd seen you paying off a Wherryman, and I knew then that you must be in peril."

William? What is he doing here? How did he know? He says nothing, but he is lifting me, my arm about his shoulders as he rises from a crouch. Suddenly, for the first time, it hurts, and I manage a weak cry at the pain.

Our progress is, of necessity, slow. Now that I am with someone, my mind seems a little more able to focus - though my vision keeps blurring, and I have no idea where we are going. Perhaps to Cromwell's apartments? I should rather he take me back to mine - where I can die amongst familiar things…

"Mr Cromwell has his sovereign specific, Mr Rich. That can save you. Stay with me." He must have almost my entire weight upon his shoulders, for my legs are barely obeying my command that they move.

There are people around us now, and I can hear someone laughing. I have no idea why, but William does, "They think you to be drunk, Sir."

Better that than dying, I suppose.

Then, after all but an eternity, we are at Cromwell's door. William drags me inside, and at last, I am allowed to lie down - albeit on that Turkish carpet that Cromwell likes so much… _That wretched carpet he likes so much…_

"Mr Cromwell!" William is now in front of his master, who still has not moved, "I need the Sovereign specific - Mr Rich has been knifed and will die without it. I cannot use it - only you will know how much is required. I can prepare the cordial, but I need you to save him."

My vision has blurred, and I cannot see if he responds; then William does something unexpected, he grabs his master by the shoulders, and shakes him furiously, "You were _not_ responsible for the deaths of the Frescobaldis!" he shouts, "Nor for Joachim's fall! But if your Second dies, that _shall_ be your responsibility. We have not the time to find another, and you yourself have said that he could be Wolsey's equal - perhaps more! You must save him - you _must!_ "

I still cannot see much at all any more, but I can hear the sound of cloth rustling, and then I hear his voice, "My God…the cordial, William - quickly!" He has my shoulders now, and I try to speak, to give him the message - but my tongue will not obey me, "Easy now, Richie - this will be hard for you, worse than all you have already endured, but it can save you. Stay with me while we wait. The Cordial takes time to prepare. Do not die. Do you hear me? You are my Second, _and_ my friend and I _order_ you not to die!"

I want to obey him. He sounds so furious - like that angry voice in the cellar. Everyone is angry with me today - I cannot help but wonder why…

"Don't go, Richie, for God's sake don't go. It nearly destroyed me to lose Wolsey. Don't make me lose you, too. Stay with me. Just _stay with me_."

I wish I could. I really do. But I don't know if I can. I think he is still speaking, but the voice is fading. Such a shame, it was saying such nice things too…

* * *

Pain. Pain worse than anything I have ever known. Fire is burning in every vein in my body - I must be in hell, I must be burning in the Devil's fire…then I scream, but there's something in my mouth…

"Bite down, Richie. Bite down hard as you can." That is not the voice I expected to hear…not the Devil's voice. It is Cromwell's. Is _he_ the Devil?

My eyes spring open, and suddenly I can see the elaborate plasterwork on the ceiling of Cromwell's apartments. I am still afire, and now I understand why he battered the floor with his fist, and his heels kicked as they did. If the wound was dreadful, this is far, far worse. I clench my teeth down on the stick between them, and horrible rasping growls escape from my mouth. My wits are returning to me, and I know that I cannot afford to scream - not here. I should bring half the Palace into the room if I did.

Through it all, my head is upon Cromwell's lap, and he is gripping my hand tightly, doing all he can to support me in my agony. He knows what this is like - he has endured it more times than I could know. William is beside me, pressing a cloth pad against my side, looking fearful, and waiting for Cromwell's nod to assure him that he can remove it.

In time, the fire subsides, and William pulls the pad away. The pain, however, does not depart - every joint in my body feels as though it has frozen, and to move them is excruciating. Helping me to my knees, Cromwell sets a basin before me, and hands me a cup of the cordial. If it looked foul being poured out into the cup when he drank it, the sight of it in a cup set for me is horrible. I must drink it, but it looks like loose stool water - and I cannot contemplate it.

"Drink it Richie," Cromwell orders, "You must - or the poison in your joints will go into your blood. I cannot save you from that, and all you have endured thus far shall be as nothing compared to it."

Tentatively, I raise the cup to my lips, the pain in my shoulder, elbow and wrist so cruel that it is an effort. The smell is appalling, and I almost have to force my mouth open with my other hand. If the smell was bad, the taste is worse, and I shriek out a curse as I finally swallow it.

"The basin," Cromwell advises, gently, "I have never seen any man tolerate the cordial the first time they drink it."

He is right. Within less than a minute, I retch violently, and vomit it into the basin. If it tasted bad going down, it tastes even worse coming back up. Immediately, William refills the cup from a pitcher and hands it to me to drink again. I look at him with hatred as I take it. It is even harder to force it down a second time. And again, it comes back up within a minute.

Wordlessly, William removes the befouled basin and replaces it with another. Then he hands me another cup of the cordial, and I force myself to swallow it. This time, however, it doesn't even make it to my stomach, as I fall over the basin and puke it back out from the taste alone.

And then there is another cup of it in my vision, and I want to slap it away. I can't keep doing this…it won't stay in my stomach.

"It will stay in you in the end, Richie." Cromwell sympathises, "It will in the end - keep trying."

The smell of it makes me heave hopelessly, but I try again as he tells me to. And - again, it returns, splattered into the basin; followed almost immediately by a fifth cupful. By now, Cromwell is rubbing my shoulders as though I am a woman in the midst of giving birth, and William is wiping my sweat-soaked face with a damp cloth. Then he holds out a sixth cup, and I can't stand it any more: I burst into tears. The taste in my mouth is foul; my clothes are splattered with vomit. I am in horrible pain and I just want to lie down on my own bed and die. Is that too much to ask?

Cromwell lets me sob for a moment or two, but then he abandons sympathy and takes the cup in his hand, "This is the last of it, Richard." He says, firmly, "If you do not keep this down, then there may not be sufficient time to make more. You _must_ drink this. If you do not, then I shall have William hold you down and force it down your throat myself. Do you want me to have to do that?"

I want to slap the cup out of his hand, as I did with the fourth one that William offered; but instead I take it.

"Try pinching your nose shut." William offers, not altogether helpfully.

Closing my eyes, and tensing up, I tip the cup and empty its contents down my raw throat. Please God, let it stay down…please…I can't puke again…I think I would bring up my stomach with it…

I slump forward, and again I feel myself tensing to retch - but this time it is dry. Nothing emerges, and I flop down on my side, exhausted.

"A few minutes more, William, to be sure - then let him rest on my bed."

I try to speak - my message…Tom…Zaebos…but the words stick in my throat and will not emerge. Vaguely, I am aware of William at my head, his arms under mine to lift me, and my legs are also being lifted. My shoes are removed, and I am lain on something soft - a bed. Then all thoughts of messages, death or darkness are lost, and I sink into bottomless dark.

* * *

 _Well done, Second of the Raven. You've slept enough - you have messages to deliver. Get to it_.

My eyes snap open. Where am I? The bed is not mine - but I am still clothed, so it is clearly not some nocturnal adventure after a night's carousing. Slowly, I sit up, and look down to find that my doublet has been opened, and the front of my shirt has been pulled from my upper hose and is now loose - and horribly stained: a ghastly rust-brown. Where is my jerkin? God - please don't let that be gone, it has the paper in it…

Then it all starts to come back. Zaebos…Wyatt…my own near death. God, what time is it? Without thinking, I am up off the bed, and burst into the chamber beyond, "What time is it?"

William is on his feet at once, "Calm yourself Mr Rich - all is well. You have been asleep…"

"I know that!" I shout at him, "What the hell is the time?"

His eyes widen - clearly he has never seen the aftermath of the use of that hideous remedy - so he doesn't realise how quickly the recovery is complete. Startled, he turns to point at the expensive venetian clock that sits on the overmantel, the one that I heard striking ten this morning…

"Nine o'clock, as near as…we have three hours at the most."

"Three hours? Until what?"

"Until Tom Wyatt dies - where the hell is Cromwell?" then I remember, "Where's my jerkin?"

"I have set it aside to be cleaned, Mr Rich - it is rather befouled, I'm afraid."

"Fetch it - it has something vital in it." At least I hope it has. I have been unconscious several times, so I have no idea if the paper is still in the pocket. As soon as William hands it to me, along with my shoes, I delve into the lining, and sag with relief. It is still there. Fetching it out, I set it carefully on the table, and advise William to guard it with his life. I still need to speak to Cromwell, however, and he is not in the room. Apparently he is not in the chambers at all.

"He has gone to hunt." William explains quietly, "In hopes of finding Mr Wyatt."

"God, no!" I look at him in horror, "If he does that, he shan't find him, and my message shall be too late! I _know_ where Tom is!"

Now William also looks shocked. Despite his knowledge of his master's habits, even when hunting, he cannot hope to know where Cromwell is now. If he does not return, or we fail to find him, before midnight, then we shall lose Tom Wyatt. Why the hell is nothing easy tonight?

Perhaps some power or other heard us, as the door to the chambers opens, and Cromwell enters, "There's nothing much out there tonight, William, I think I shall…good God, Richard, what are you doing? You should be abed!"

I ignore his surprise to see me up, "Never mind me. Zaebos gave me a message before he stabbed me - he has Tom. You are to meet him at the Tiltyard at midnight, give him your swords and your head. Or Tom dies."

"My head?" Cromwell looks bemused. But I remember the trophies Lamashtu keeps on her wall. She would almost certainly forgive Zaebos if he made such a gift to her.

"What do we do?" I persist, "We are helpless against Zaebos as long as he has Tom in his clutches - if we do not do as he asks, then I have no doubt that his choice of dispatch will be far worse than the manner he chose for me."

Cromwell frowns, clearly thinking. Then he turns to a nearby sideboard, kneels before it and wrenches open a door. Immediately, he is burrowing into it, throwing papers, objects and all manner of abandoned and probably forgotten articles across the floor behind him, until he makes a small noise of triumph and retrieves a little wooden box that he brings over to me, ignoring the mess that he has just made. I note, however, that William looks at it with a sigh.

"Wolsey asked me to keep this always near - so it stays in the palaces at all times. Never at Grant's Place or even at Austin Friars. I know not what it contains; only that it must be used only in the most desperate circumstances - for it can be used only once."

"Desperate circumstances?" I ask, nervously, as I take the box. In what way can these circumstances be called desperate in the context of Wolsey's intention?

Cromwell does not reply. He just nods. We must choose - risk all to save Wyatt and hope to God that he survives our attempt, or use this to ensure that we succeed. Assuming, of course, that the box contains something that we _can_ use. What if it is something that will not serve us? We will have used it to no purpose - and Wyatt shall still be dead at the end of it. But we cannot… _cannot_ allow Tom to die - not after all that he has suffered in the aftermath of our actions against the Boleyns. We owe it to him to save him from this - but if we should waste something so vital in the attempt, would he thank us for it?

Rather than say anything, I instead open the box. If we know what it contains, perhaps that shall make the final choice a little easier.

Within is a tightly folded packet that looks to contain papers. Whatever it is, I can only assume it is something that must be read. I look up at Cromwell, "Should I open this?"

He shakes his head, "I think not. It may be that the very act of opening the packet might spring whatever it contains to life. Best to keep it safe and reserve it in case of need." He seems quite set on the idea of using it - and the doubts I am entertaining seem not to be with him.

I must, therefore, risk his wrath and be his Second. If I do not advise him, then we might make an error for which all of England might pay; including Wyatt if we cannot save him. He may not like it; but then, did William not say that he considered me to be a Second that could equal Wolsey, if not more? Time, then, for him to start listening.


	23. My Latin is Quite Sufficient, Mr Cromwell

 

I pocket the paper, and fold my arms, "Are you sure we should do this?"

Cromwell stares at me, "In what circumstances would we do anything else?"

"I cannot begin to imagine - but then neither can you. I doubt that this is the circumstance that Wolsey had in mind when he gave this to you. We cannot be certain that, in doing this, we shall doom ourselves, and all of the world, in our single-mindedness."

"So you would leave Tom to die?" Cromwell asks, almost viciously. I know that I am angering him, but I also know why he is being like this - and he needs to see it for himself.

"No - never! But there must be another way. Would Tom thank you if you used this to save his life, only to find that you cannot then use it to save a thousand, or ten thousand? What would he say to you then?"

"Give me the packet, Richard." He holds out his hand for it.

"No." I shake my head, "It stays in my pocket. The decision to use it is mine."

His expression darkens, "Give me the packet, Rich."

"Wolsey would not do so. Why do you expect me to?"

"You dare to mention his name?" Cromwell is suddenly furious, "He gave up everything to protect me! _Everything_. Would you do that?"

"I did." I am astonished at how calm I sound, "My blood still stains your adored turkish carpet. Or have you forgotten?"

Then one of the silver blades is out of its sheath, and the point hovers at my throat, "Just give me the damned packet, Rich."

"Why?" I demand. How is it that I am so unafraid now? When Zaebos had a blade against me, I was almost blubbering in terror. In his current mood, I cannot be certain that Cromwell shall not use it any more than I could be sure of Zaebos.

"Because I am tired of failing people!" he suddenly shouts, "I failed Wolsey, I failed Queen Katherine, I _destroyed_ Queen Anne, nearly destroyed Tom and I have failed you! I _refuse_ to fail Tom Wyatt again!" He does not shed tears, but I can see the strain in his eyes as he breathes hard in his sudden outburst of temper. This is why he needs a Second - the burden of being a Silver Sword is far too great to carry alone; yet, until I found him in the offices that night, he had been obliged to do so. It is no surprise to me now that he cannot bring himself to share the burden with another - not yet: he has become over-accustomed to keeping it to himself.

"We are _both_ the cause of Anne's downfall, Thomas." I remind him, quietly, "You _and_ I. We did not fail in our duty to the King - we did as we had to. Both her Father and Brother were in danger of destroying the Kingdom under the influence of the monster that now holds Tom prisoner, and we could not stop them without her being caught in it; not after she lost her child. You yourself say over and over again - the Mission is All. It has to be - and we have to steel ourselves to believe it. I am only now beginning to truly understand that."

He has turned away from me, but he is quiet now, and I know he is listening, "I don't know what you saw in me that made you think I could be your Second," I continue, "but I think it was more than chance that put us in the Offices at the same time that night; and that prompted me to stop hating you in little more than an instant - as I began to see beyond my blind prejudice. You were always, to me, a base born upstart with more power than you deserved, and I chose to cast you in that light without any thought as to who you might truly be, or how you had reached the heights that you had. When I so abruptly agreed to be your Second, I did so because I could see the burden you carried alone - and that you could not bear to do so any longer; and I found it in myself to set aside my prejudices and see you as you are. It is that insight that has made me realise that I do not regret my choice. Not for a moment. But I ask you - _let_ me be your Second. Do not call me such, and then speak to me of Wolsey. He is dead and gone and I stand in his place. I speak as I do because I must. If I do not, then what use am I? If we are to use what lies in this packet to save Tom Wyatt, we must think through all that might follow. We cannot afford to make blind choices because of the guilt we feel for that which is in the past, and cannot be changed."

He sighs, but he re-sheaths the sword and turns to me. Although there is sadness in his eyes, he is no longer hostile and there is even a slight smile lingering about his mouth, "Forgive me, Richie. You are correct in all that you say. I have not had anyone speak such words to me since I was left to work alone. I almost lost you tonight - and nothing has shown me more how much of an abyss lies before me should that happen. Having regained that which was taken from me when the Cardinal fell, I could not accept that I must be left alone again - and it has impaired my judgement." He looks at me, more firmly, "I cannot accept, however, that we must abandon Tom to Zaebos."

"Nor can I," I agree, stoutly, "But we must meet him with clear heads and more than just a vague plan to use an unknown weapon against him. I have no doubt that he will have stacked the cards in his favour, and we must do what we can to reveal his hand before he is ready. He demanded that we meet at midnight. Why not go to the Tiltyard early? If we are there before he is ready, perhaps we can meet him on _our_ terms?"

This time, Cromwell really _does_ smile, "Spoken like a true Second. I knew I was right in asking you. Come - we shall stop at your apartments to reunite you with your poniard. Let us find Tom and end this - once and for all."

* * *

There is no moon as we approach the silent Tiltyard. Somewhere, a tawny owl is calling softly, and the trees are shivering in a light breeze that sets their leaves a-whispering - I almost feel as though they are warning Zaebos that we are here.

We have already come upon one corpse; one of the guards at the gates out of the Palace Proper - but otherwise, there is nothing to see, and not much else to hear, either.

Cromwell has not bothered with the cloak, as the early summer night is warm, and his swords are set at his back again. I have no jerkin other than the one that I puked on, so I wear the doublet without it. My poniard is now safely set at my waist - though I hope I do not have to use it and put my incompetence on open display. Zaebos is quite scornful enough of me as it is.

There is another half hour yet to midnight, and we both hope that this is sufficiently early for us to see how the land lies, and plan accordingly. With so little light, it is nearly impossible to see ahead; but it seems that Zaebos is quite happy to show us what he has in mind, as several torches are set into the ground here and there - sufficient for use to view his preparations.

There are three large bonfires, set apart at equal distances. Over two, a gibbet has been set, while a third stands alone. I cannot help myself - I suddenly clutch at Cromwell's arm, for Tom is in the first of the two gibbets, looking about with a fearful expression. I have no doubt that fear is less for himself than it is for us - he knows that he is the bait in a trap, and he is anxious that we do not walk into it. I know full well that he is a far braver man than I.

I frown, wondering why there are _two_ gibbets - until I realise that Cromwell is backing into the dark, and I understand why. We are not too early - we are expected. Zaebos has anticipated our arrival and is waiting…

A hand clamps onto my shoulder, and there is something cold at my right temple. From the expression of frustration and concern on Cromwell's face, I know that I have - again - fallen straight into Zaebos's clutches. Rather than be afraid, as I have been each time previously, I just share his frustration. Am I _really_ so useless when it comes to sensing what is around me?

"Stand still, Crow." Zaebos hisses, close to my ear, "If you so much as lift a finger, his brains shall be scattered to the winds."

I do not have time to process the thought, as he pulls me back, out into the tiltyard; and my suspicions about that second gibbet are confirmed. It is for me.

When we reach it, he orders me to enter it. I refuse, with a surprising fit of anger rather than fear. Cromwell is still standing at the entrance to the Tiltyard. He has not moved, and I know that he has done so simply because it is not that desperate that Zaebos keep me alive. He still, after all, has Wyatt.

Rather than press me to do as ordered, Zaebos merely steps away and points the gun at Wyatt, "Get in, or he dies." He smirks, unpleasantly, as I struggle to comply. Once, however I have crawled into the cage, he locks it shut and turns back to Cromwell, "Come into my parlour, Crow! I am waiting!"

He advances slowly, and without even a flicker of emotion. As he did in the interrogations, he has submerged all sign that he has any feelings at all, and acts solely as the Raven. With both our lives in danger, he will not act rashly now - we matter too much to him - but nonetheless, he must act.

"Come here. Right here before me." Zaebos orders, gleefully, "I shall present divine Lamashtu with more than she could possibly have hoped for - silver swords and their owner's head. You shall have pride of place in her collection!"

I'm not sure he remembers those horrible trophies - but I do.

"And if I do not?" Cromwell asks, emotionlessly.

In answer, Zaebos turns to the third bonfire, the one to my left. Without a word he extends his hand, and shoots a fireball from his fingertips. Before I can be astonished that he can do such a thing, the bonfire beside me explodes into such a mass of flames - that if a gibbet were above, it would consume the occupant in an instant. If I was not afraid before, I am now, and I turn to look at Wyatt, whose eyes are as wide as mine. Neither of us expected this…

Zaebos is standing between us, his eyes bright with more than just firelight. He looks out across the field to where Cromwell is still slowly advancing. If he is shocked at the fate that Zaebos has in store for us, he does not show it; instead he is calm - absolutely focused upon the demon. Once he is no more than a few feet away, he stops.

"Now, Crow." Zaebos orders, "draw your swords and get on your knees."

He has no other weapons - it is the swords or nothing. He cannot match Zaebos in terms of firepower - certainly not fireballs. Impassive, he draws the blades, and then kneels. Surely he cannot give up so easily? I cannot help but feel despair - even if he does as Zaebos commands, he shall die, and then so shall we…

Perhaps he has a plan. Maybe there's an idea that I cannot fathom. I look across at Wyatt - perhaps he is thinking the same thing; but then again, his expression is shocked, so perhaps he is not.

Beside us, Zaebos begins to laugh, a grotesque cackle that displays to the uttermost his contempt for us, and such an easy victory over the Silver Sword, "Are you truly such a poor opponent that you would sacrifice yourself for these two fools?" he gloats, grinning widely, "Lamashtu shall be delighted to receive your head, and I shall delight in their agonies as they burn once you fall. Did you think that this would save them? I am safe from her anger, and this Kingdom shall fall into bloody chaos - for I have found the chink in your armour, Crow! You love them, do you not? You would give all to protect them! They are as brothers to you! And now that weakness is your death and theirs!"

Then, at last, he speaks, "You know nothing of me. Where I came from, or what I am. Nor do you know anything of the men you hold in your grasp. Swords may be my power, but words are theirs. And I trust them to know what words to use."

The packet. He means the packet - but I cannot get to it without Zaebos seeing me. He must move forward, so that I am out of his line of vision. Move…go on… _move_.

We all seem to stay still forever. Then the palace bell strikes midnight. The appointed time of our meeting. His expression horrible, Zaebos finally advances, standing over Cromwell, who kneels at his feet, the twin swords held low.

"For God's sake, Thomas!" Wyatt cries, desperately, "Do _not_ submit to him! We are of no importance - not in comparison to you! You _must_ fight him!"

I want to shout in agreement; but, unlike Wyatt, I am close to the third bonfire, which still burns violently - and the heat of it is more intense than I could ever have imagined. If he does fight, then I shall be engulfed in flames - and the fear of it stops up my mouth. I cannot demand that he allow my death, for I am too afraid to die. Not like this…please God, not in fire…I've seen burnings, and I have heard the screams of even the most determined and devout as the flames began to consume them. I cannot face such a death. Surely Wyatt doesn't believe that he can?

Wyatt sees me looking at him, and turns to me, clearly expecting me to concur - until he sees my face and understands that I am afraid. Rather than be scornful, instead he eyes me with real sympathy. He knows that I lack his reckless courage, and he does not hate me for it. I wish, however, that I could hate myself so little as he seems to.

But then, I remember - Zaebos is in front of me now. He cannot see me - and I reach into my pocket for the paper packet. Needs must. Cromwell must be stalling so that I can read the paper; he still does not move, and submits quite impassively to Zaebos's gloating. He would only do that if he knew that I was going to fetch out that packet. He could fight now if he wanted to - his blades are more than sharp enough to sever the demon's hands at the wrists - but could he still spit fire? Best not to risk it.

My fingers fumble awkwardly with the paper, as they are still trembling. I manage to extract the contents - another piece of paper that has writing upon it. Squinting in the uncertain light, I try to read the message:

_Read these words to disempower a demon - it shall call forth their true form, and render them powerless to face any that might fight them. Once you begin to speak, you must not stop until the demon is dead - and you will not be able to stop. But know that if you do so, the words will cease to exist once they are spoken. This cannot ever be used again._

I turn the paper over, and see Latin. I am terrible at Latin - I should be better, but I am not. Worse, the fire is burning down, and I cannot be sure that I can even see enough to read the text at all. But there is no choice. If I do not, then we all die - Cromwell needs to be free to fight Zaebos, and he cannot if we are still in mortal danger. Disempower the demon, and call it into its normal form. All I have to do is read. I look up, and I can see that Cromwell is looking at me, surreptitiously. He is waiting for me to do it… _my Latin is quite sufficient, Mr Cromwell_ , I mutter, in my head. Yes. All I have to do is read.

So I do.


	24. The Song of the Silver Swords

The text is becoming almost impossible to decipher, but I stutter out the words as best I can, " _In nomine Domini, et reduc tecum fratres tuos, et disperdam illud. In nomine Christi adhuc teneam. In nomine Domini Spiritus illumina cor tuum tenebrosum erit. Verum formam egredietur et morieris in orbes._ "

I hope to God that it's right, as I can barely make out some of it, and my recitation is hesitant. It should not be so weak - but it is better than nothing. A start, at least.

I look down and am about to try again, when Zaebos turns, his expression enraged. His face has changed - it has lost its human aspect, and I can now see the face beneath. I wish desperately that I could un-see it, but it remains there in my head even as I drop my eyes back to the paper and open my mouth to begin a second recitation.

Zaebos is furious, "Be silent, you pen scratching worm!" and his hand goes up. There is fire forming at the end of his fingers - he is going set the bonfire alight beneath me…

I cannot help myself, I scream in panic at the thought of fire, and the grace drops from my fingers, where it rests briefly on the bars of the gibbet. I snatch at it, but the wind gets there first, and it is fluttering away into the wood below as I utter a panicked curse at its departure. I can already hear Zaebos's crazed laughter at my appalling failure, and I know that it will be followed by flames. I have no one to turn to, not now - my cowardice has killed us all…

I look up, and his hand is raising again, flames at the ready, and I cannot stop him, "Oh God! Help me!" I had no idea my voice could go up that high; but it does. Perhaps someone might hear it, then. I scramble to the back of the small cage - as if that could possibly save me, and I cringe helplessly, my hands before my face. _Please God…please help me…please…_

Everything seems then to go still. Something is happening - I can feel it, as though a part of me is being pushed to one side. Entirely independently, my body moves. I shift forward again, rising to my knees, and my hands reach forward to clasp the bars. Zaebos is looking at me, his hand still held high, flames still licking at his fingers… _In nomine Domini, et reduc tecum fratres tuos, et disperdam illud. In nomine Christi adhuc teneam. In nomine Domini Spiritus illumina cor tuum tenebrosum erit. Verum formam egredietur et morieris in orbes._

I can hear the voice, and I know that my mouth is moving - but I am not speaking, at least I do not think it is me. My awareness is my own, but not the rest of me, _In nomine Domini, et reduc tecum fratres tuos, et disperdam illud. In nomine Christi adhuc teneam. In nomine Domini Spiritus illumina cor tuum tenebrosum erit. Verum formam egredietur et morieris in orbes._

Zaebos is staring at me, his expression one of horror, which looks far worse than it might have done had he still had his human face. The flames at his fingers sputter out and die. _In nomine Domini, et reduc tecum fratres tuos, et disperdam illud. In nomine Christi adhuc teneam. In nomine Domini Spiritus illumina cor tuum tenebrosum erit. Verum formam egredietur et morieris in orbes._

I look about, though I can only do so by moving my eyes. My head is still, and my mouth still moves, speaking the words that are stopping the demon before me from killing us all. I asked for help - it appears that I have been granted it. _In nomine Domini, et reduc tecum fratres tuos, et disperdam illud. In nomine Christi adhuc teneam. In nomine Domini Spiritus illumina cor tuum tenebrosum erit. Verum formam egredietur et morieris in orbes._

Cromwell rises to his feet. This is what he was waiting for - this is why he obeyed so willingly. Did he know this might happen? That the words would speak themselves? He is implacable - and waits calmly while Zaebos howls and fights against the power that is even now disarming and restraining him, _In nomine Domini, et reduc tecum fratres tuos, et disperdam illud. In nomine Christi adhuc teneam. In nomine Domini Spiritus illumina cor tuum tenebrosum erit. Verum formam egredietur et morieris in orbes._

Then, finally, Zaebos screams horribly, and falls to the ground, where he writhes and twists like an earthworm on a sun-heated spade. The words are doing their work - and soon he shall have no more strength and power than a mortal man. _In nomine Domini, et reduc tecum fratres tuos, et disperdam illud. In nomine Christi adhuc teneam. In nomine Domini Spiritus illumina cor tuum tenebrosum erit. Verum formam egredietur et morieris in orbes._

And when that happens. He shall have a Silver Sword to fight.

* * *

The demon is now fully present - and restrained. That voice is still speaking, repeating the words that sound to me like some form of grace over and over. As long as the demon lives, that will not end.

Zaebos's fine clothes have burned away, and he is hideous to behold - ghastly, wrinkled and mottled skin that stretches over his bones with barely more muscle than that which I saw upon the ravener on the night of my first hunt. His mouth is wide, and I can see sharp, deadly fangs - proof, if proof were needed, that he is a revenant.

Cromwell, however, is staring at him, and I see something in his eyes of that youth who faced horror in a Florentine mansion. When he speaks, I can hear his shock, "You are like him…the monster that destroyed the Frescobaldis…"

Zaebos hisses, horribly, "My brother…the only other of my kind…the last of us! And you were at his death! Long have I desired vengeance; and what do I find but the one who was the cause of his demise! Had I known it was you, I should have torn out your heart long ago!"

"His death was not my doing." Cromwell advises, recovering quickly and as dispassionate as before, "Another saw to that."

"The faceless one!" Zaebos snaps, "Long had he hunted us! We were forced to flee time and time again as he came upon us! I cannot have him - for he is long dead…do you know how he died? Why he wore the mask? Do you care?"

Cromwell says nothing, but glares at Zaebos, his expression alone demanding an explanation.

"He breathed his last in a Lazar House! He was a leper! None but the Silver Swords would have accepted him - because his talent was great! But it was not sufficient to save him from that vile disease! And yet he found one who could surpass him - so he said. I heard him say so! I knew not that he meant you!"

By the expression upon Cromwell's face, neither did he.

"But you are weak!" Zaebos howls, "You came to me and would have offered your life to save those who are behind me! I could have destroyed you at a stroke!" he is not gloating now - he is complaining. I quite enjoy watching it, despite the rather uncomfortable distraction of my mouth moving as the grace speaks itself again.

Then Cromwell draws himself up, tall and straight, "You could have destroyed me - and it would have mattered not. I am but a man with two swords. That is all I am. It is not that which makes me dangerous - it is that which I represent. I have no power, and nothing more than the strength in my arms. _My_ power lies in the loyalty of those who travel with me - and in the strength of those who would follow me had you defeated me this night. Even now, my Second has discovered depths of courage he did not know he possessed. The poet has set aside his enmity to demand that I sacrifice him for the greater good. _That_ is my strength. Not these." He lifts the two swords, "They are symbols of what we are - and tools."

Zaebos turns to look at us, his eyes wild, "I am still strong!" he screeches, "I can call upon dread Lamashtu to destroy you, for it would be her pleasure!" He raises his hands again, as he did before when he intended to shoot fire at me. Beside me, in the corner of my eye, I see Wyatt screw his eyes shut and tense up in anticipation of the flames that he expects to follow.

The words repeat again. Zaebos thrusts his hands forward - but nothing emerges from them. Even should she wish to help him, the connection between them is broken. The grace I keep repeating has seen to that.

Screeching his rage, Zaebos turns back to Cromwell, who is watching him quite impassively. With nothing left now, it is his sword alone. He has no more, and no less, power than the man he faces. And now the real fight begins.

They stand for an age, staring at each other; the revenant and the Raven. Cromwell is entirely patient, and will not act with the rashness that Zaebos demands. He has already made that mistake - and I am relieved that he has learned from it. My mouth is still moving independently of my will, and I can hear the words of the grace, a continual accompaniment to the scene before me. Wyatt calls across to me, "What are you doing? Are you alright?"

I wish I could tell him, but I cannot. Not until it is over. I imagine that he must think me possessed, or something. I cannot turn my head to look at him, so I do not know if this is truly what he thinks. I just remain still, staring at the two combatants, endlessly repeating the grace again, and again, and again.

Zaebos is now circling Cromwell, that long sword with the overly complicated hand guard in his right hand - or should that be gnarled fist? My dispassionate view of the events is disconcerting, and I wonder how much of it is due to the power that is over me, and how much is in my own mind. I am not sure I wish to know the answer.

"You say that you are the last of your kind." Cromwell remarks, almost conversationally, as he stays on the spot and turns slowly so that he is always facing the revenant, "It would give me great satisfaction to rid the world of you. Then all that would remain are the lower revenants. They are easily dispatched - and their fear of sunlight keeps the world far safer."

Zaebos does not answer him, but glares and continues to circle. It is becoming increasingly clear that he is being expected to make the first move. If not, they shall still be here when the dawn comes. And then what?

It proves to be the demon who lacks patience - though perhaps we should not be surprised at this. He leaps at Cromwell with a furious roar, but Cromwell merely turns about and dodges him; backing away carefully and easily. He has no intention of wasting his energy: we do not know how much Zaebos has, and he has no wish to be brought down by arrogance. He made that mistake with Lamashtu.

Zaebos has already fought this man - he knows the he is completely outclassed, so why is he so determined to fight? It can only be that he has nothing left to lose. Lamashtu would almost certainly have some hideous punishment awaiting him, and his only salvation must be the head of the Silver Sword. He will not leave without it - he will die first.

Then, at last the blades clash. Such is the speed at which they move, that I can barely see them. It is only now that I notice something strange amidst the constant murmuring of the grace as it issues from my mouth. As the silver swords cut through the air, they seem to make a sound, almost a whistle, that is not unpleasant to the ear. It accompanies each stroke and cut, like a song that matches the fluid movements of the Silver Sword as he fights. Again, he leaps over Zaebos's wildly swinging blade as he did when I first saw him against that ravener, rolling easily over his shoulder and back to his feet. He moves so easily - so quickly; and that look of sheer exhilaration is returned. This time, however, there is something else, and I realise that this is more than just a fight - it is his chance to finally avenge the Frescobaldi family beyond the death of the man who sent the brother into their household. He could not save them - he lacked the skill and the strength. Now, however, he does not - and there will be no more creatures such as Zaebos to destroy good people ever again.

The swords meet again, and sparks scatter; again and again. The violence that Zaebos is attempting to inflict is met at every turn - after all, Cromwell has two swords to his one, and can match him in both speed and strength thanks to the words that still emerge from me - or whatever it is that is using me to speak.

There is blood on Zaebos now, from cuts that have got past his defences - and he has not been able to draw so much as a speck in return. His anger is so great that he has lost all reason, and batters madly at the silver swords that are between him and the man he wishes to destroy - and he is thus the architect of his own destruction.

Making one last, enormous sweep, he aims to slash the blade as though intending to cleave Cromwell in two at the waist. The Silver Sword does not hesitate; leaping again into the air, he seems almost to dive at the revenant, twisting as he does so and slicing his blade violently down into the creature's shoulder, cleaving into the body almost down to his navel. Rather than sprawl upon the ground, he turns in a quick somersault, pulling the blade free as he lands easily at Zaebos's back. It is a mortal blow - whether human or not - for he has split the heart with his silver blade.

Slowly, his hideous face uncomprehending, the demon begins to crumble into dust, and whatever was speaking through me goes silent. I find that I can move again, and turn to Tom, who is as open mouthed as I at the manoeuvre that ended the fight. Then, before we can do anything to help ourselves, our prisons, and the bonfires below them, also crumble to dust, and we drop to the grass, each of us shouting something obscene as an accompaniment.

Retrieving his other sword, Cromwell stands over us, his expression one of mirth at our sprawling. Wyatt glares at him, crossly. "Show-off."

* * *

Back on our feet, and dusted off, we look about us at the tiltyard. There is nothing now to show what happened here - the only casualty other than Zaebos is that unfortunate guard. We shall have no choice but to pretend that footpads oversaw his demise - but at least his death shall be the last.

"What happened to you?" Wyatt asks me, "Were you possessed? You would not look at me, or speak to me - just those words over and over again."

I think about it, "I am not sure. I think perhaps I was - though not with ill intent. When I lost the paper that had the words on it, I called out for help. I think that was the help." My voice is terribly rough - but then, I was speaking almost constantly for the best part of an hour, so perhaps I should not be surprised.

I look down, and there, at my feet, is that paper. Retrieving it, I look at it in the dim light of the last of the torches - which are all that remain of anything that Zaebos placed there - as he must have used some infernal power or other to create the things that vanished. The instruction remains in place - but the Latin text has gone. As promised, we could use it only the once. It can never be used again.

"Come, both of you." Cromwell says, "We can discuss matters just as well in my Quarters; and more comfortably."

William has tidied up considerably since our departure, though the turkish carpet still has unpleasant rust-brown bloodstains on it. He is not sure what to do about that - so has busied himself mulling some wine instead. As I sip mine, I find it aggravates the rawness in my throat, so I set it aside.

"Thank God you are well, Richard," Wyatt says, as we seat ourselves, "When Zaebos stabbed you, I thought you to be a dead man."

"I nearly was," I admit, "I think I would have lain in that cellar until dead if I had not been ordered to crawl out of it."

"By whom?" Wyatt asks, bemused.

"If I could answer that question, I would." I try to work out an answer, "It was both a compulsion, and actual words - someone wanted me to escape, and became greatly vexed with me when I did not comply at once."

"Someone?" Cromwell is equally baffled.

I shrug, "But then, if William had not found me, then my escape from the cellar would have done little more than enable me to die in the open air." I turn to him, "How _did_ you find me, William?"

Now _he_ looks bemused, "As with you, Sir, I cannot answer that question well - I knew you intended to come back as quickly as you could, and I was told that you had been seen paying off a Wherryman. But when I was returning to Mr Cromwell's apartments, I felt a strong urge to go to the burned part of the Palace. I did not know why - but then I came upon you."

"Someone helped us." I say. We all share a nervous glance. Who on earth could be helping us - and from where? As we cannot fathom out an answer, we sit in silence for a while, until Wyatt turns to Cromwell, "Thomas - please forgive my curse upon you. I should not have spoken as I did - I know that you had no choice in what you had to do, and it grieved you greatly to do it. I had much time in that cellar to think, as I thought myself soon to die - and I should not blame you for being obliged to carry out the King's will. It would grieve me greatly to lose our comradeship in the fight that we face."

"I accept your apology," Cromwell says, taking sip of wine, "but I do not feel that you should give one - your anger at my actions is second only to my own. Had I been granted a choice, I would have done all I could to save her."

"You guided the King into sparing her the stake, Thomas," I remind him, "In his mood at that hour, there is no guarantee that he would not have struck at you or inflicted some punishment or other - despite it seeming he had come to that decision of his own volition."

"Perhaps." Cromwell admits, "But what's done is done. We cannot go back - we can only go on. Zaebos is, at least, no more; but Lamashtu is still present. The King has remarried, and his desire for a son is greater than ever. If she can interfere again, then the peace in which we now reside is threatened. If we can honour those who lost their lives in this fight - it must be through preventing her aims from coming to fruition. No matter how much we wish it, this is not over. It will end only with the death of Lamashtu, and that must be our objective. I hope, Tom, that you will keep with us as we prepare to meet it."

Wyatt nods, fervently, "I came within an ace of losing all. My love for the late Queen was, as you have said, the love of a child. She deserved better, and the best way that I can honour her innocent name is to work to destroy the creature that brought her down. I would be honoured to serve with you." He reaches out, and they start to shake hands - but then embrace as brothers; both forgiven and forgiving. I feel something of a lump in my throat, which hurts a bit.

"We do, at least, have something that might assist us in that aim." I say, as they return to their seats, a little embarrassed, as I can see the paper I found is still where I left it on the table, "I found this at Grant's Place when I went there to search for anything that might call you back from your melancholia."

"Your melancholia?" Wyatt asks, causing Cromwell to look abashed.

"You would not believe how he values you, Tom, my boy." I grin at him, "Almost as much as he appears to value me."

"You?" Wyatt asks, "But why?" And he finds himself with a kerchief across his face for his pains.

The little clock strikes seven. It is time for us to prepare for work. The paper with the strange names on it remains untouched on the table, at least for the moment. We must get back to our duties - study of that obscure instruction can wait awhile. I know that I have much to learn if I am to truly be the Second that I must be when we face Lamashtu. That danger will come - but for now, at least, we are safe.

Leaving my new-found friends to their own devices, I return to my apartments in search of more appropriate clothes for the Solicitor General - especially a shirt without pieces missing from the collar - wondering as I do so what work awaits me at my desk. It seems so utterly normal after last night's battle - but the secrecy of our fight means that no one must know of it, so that is for the best.

The biggest fight is yet to come. At least now, however, there are three of us to meet it - and that is always better than just one. As long as she isn't wearing that damned shift again.

I smirk to myself at the thought of it as I settle my fur-trimmed simarre over my shoulders, and then I leave for the office chambers to start the new day.


End file.
